Doldrums and Deep Waters
by Eyebrows2
Summary: Holmes has no case, and no cocaine. Watson is bearing the brunt. However, boredom is the least of their concerns, as an uncharacteristic change seems to be coming over the good doctor. These are deep, dangerous waters... Please read and review. *COMPLETE*
1. Chapter 1: The Proposition

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter One: The Proposition**

Out of all my case with Mr Sherlock Holmes, one in particular causes me to shudder when I recall it. It started on a murky Monday afternoon in February , when the yellow mists that had plagued our city all winter seemed particularly malevolent, insinuating their tendrils into the houses and souls of the five million inhabitants.

Sherlock Holmes was never the most tolerant of individuals, and his natural taciturnity and impatience had not been improved by the vile weather. No fascinating criminal enterprises appeared to capture his attention; the criminal fraternity in London seemed as inclined as their law abiding counterparts to prefer sheltering from the elements to providing the premier Consulting Detective with work.

Further exacerbation of his temper was doubtless supplied by the cessation of his cocaine habit. Three months ago, in a moment of remorse brought on by his having caused me considerable trouble and anxiety as a result of extreme recklessness, which I had strongly advised against, Holmes had vowed to me he would give up his destructive habit. I had been most gratified at the time, as I had felt partly responsible for his foolish prior behaviour, and my friend had insisted on repairing for his convalescence to the coast. The impromptu holiday indeed seemed more for my benefit than his own, although the freshness of the salty, windswept air had swept the cobwebs from both of us.

We had returned to London in a better frame, and I had been confident that Holmes had left the worst of his withdrawal symptoms behind him. However, I could have cursed the spate of uninteresting, straightforward crimes, and the lack of that _outré_ activity, that greeted us on our return. The detective was a man of his word, yet I was as aware as he was that he needed mental stimulation, and I grew increasingly concerned as he grew increasingly difficult.

Of course, it was only to be expected that I would bear the brunt of Holmes' bad humours. I believe I am as patient as the next man, and I had some sympathy for my friend's plight, yet even my usual raising of my armour was beginning to prove insufficient. Certain of his jibes left me feeling decidedly ruffled, and I feared that a falling out would be an inevitable consequence if something did not occur to alter our routine.

Bearing in mind this situation, the anticipation I felt on Mrs Hudson informing me that we had a visitor may be easily imagined. I hoped profusely that this may be a client sent to lift Holmes from his doldrums. I rose to my feet from my seat by the fireside to greet our guest.

Dr Effram Morgan was a gentleman of jovial and genial aspect. His round belly proceeded him into the room, and he shuffled towards me with the gait of a man who is plagued by some chronic musculoskeletal complaint, yet the eyes were sprightly enough, the bristling side-whiskers proud, the cheeks (and interestingly, the nose) ruddy, and the handshake firm and decisive.

"Dr Watson, I believe?"

"Yes, Sir, at your service," I replied, in some surprise, as at this stage my practice was an informal affair, consisting largely of chance-met acquaintances, and I did not receive a great many visitors.

"Delighted to meet you, Doctor, delighted. Effram Morgan, as you will already have gathered by my card." He gestured with his card case; it slipped from his fingers, spilling his calling cards over the floor.

"Blast!" Ejaculated my guest. "Do excuse me for a clumsy old fool. Gah!" He made an effort to bend his prodigious bulk floorwards, then clutched at his back. "Curse this lumbago! Could you possibly be so good as to pick up my cards? So sorry to ask it of you, but when you get to my age, dear boy, you may well understand."

"Please, think nothing of it," I answered, stooping to gather the cards, and reaching to fetch those that had disappeared beneath the furniture. "I believe I have more than a little insight into the inconveniences of a frame that will not allow me to accomplish my wishes."

"What, you?" He chuckled, richly. "You are barely more than a stripling. I imagine you refer to the exigencies of the rugby field, and the after effects."

I laughed in return. "I wish it were true, Dr Morgan, but I am afraid I was not exaggerating. I was shot twice on active service in Afghanistan, you see, and then took the enteric fever. I was wracked with it for months, and returned to England quite an invalid. My strength has largely returned to me now, but I hope I will continue to remember the frustrations others may experience."

My visitor looked quite unnecessarily mortified at this disclosure.

"My dear boy! I am so sorry! Please believe me, I did not wish to belittle your sufferings. Forgive my flippancy, about what must have been a very painful experience for you."

Rather touched, I hastened to reassure the perspiring yet good-natured gentleman.

"Please, think nothing of it, Dr Morgan. I cannot be other than flattered that my appearance now makes the idea of me being invalidish so unlikely. Will you not take a seat, and let me know what I can do for you?"

"Thank you, Doctor." He gratefully lowered his bulk into the chair opposite mine, and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. "Now, to business. May I ask if you recall young Anna Smithson?"

I smiled broadly in recognition. "I should say I do. I tended to her when she was suffering from diphtheria earlier this year. She is a delightful child."

"And you are being delightfully modest. You did not only tend to her, you quite certainly saved her life."

I spread my hands. "Any physician would have done the same."

"I am not so sure." The large man leant forward in his seat. "I have recently been in conversation with little Anna's charming mother, and she quite firmly attributes her daughter's recovery to your dedication and reassuring ways. How many times did you have to remove the membrane from her throat?"

"About fifteen." I muttered, remembering the sense of fighting against despair, the occasions where such treatments had failed.

"And we all know that, once the child begins to panic, their throat is likely to close off entirely. Mrs Smithson told me of how you kept speaking to the child, soothing her, reassuring her. She apparently stayed quite calm even when you had to remove the membranes."

"She is a particularly courageous little girl." I answered, wondering where all this was heading. Dr Morgan laughed fatly again.

"You are quite determined not to bask in your own success. You will forgive me observing that you do have a charming manner. I think my sources may be correct, and that you are exactly what I have been looking for. Perhaps I should explain more clearly.

"I have, for many years, been personal physician to a most charismatic, yet most redoubtable elderly lady, by the name of Mrs Brooker. I enjoy her company enormously, and she has been a most generous patron, yet there is no denying she can be difficult to handle. Before our association, she dismissed no fewer than eighteen private physicians, who did not meet her expectations.

"I, as you can imagine, am getting rather too long in the tooth to continue in harness. Indeed, Mrs Brooker is my only bar to a happy retirement. I have my eye on a little place near Eastbourne. But, so kind as she has been to me, I could not contemplate leaving her services without making a push to find a decent replacement. She is both declining and demanding, you see. It is a mixed blessing, tending to her. Rewarding in so many aspects, yet often exhausting. Therefore, her personal physician should be patient, caring, charming, knowledgeable, and, forgive me, not too busy, as my lady expects to be able to command attention whenever she pleases. I know you have all the above credentials. When I was, you will excuse me, researching your background, I discovered that you are the author of several insightful articles in our major journals, and, once I had displayed them to Mrs Brooker, she could not fail to be impressed."

"I take it you are offering me tenure as Mrs Brooker's next private physician?" I asked, rather drily, as the tone of Dr Morgan's narrative struck me as rather sycophantic.

"I am indeed," replied he. "Do not think of my words as mere flattery, Dr Watson." He interjected, with a sudden shrewdness of expression. "I have investigated and interviewed eight other promising young men before coming to you, and have found them wanting. I believe you are acquainted with... but I should not be commenting on the deficiencies of your acquaintances, it would be most unprofessional.

"It may strike you as an unalluring proposition, but the advantages do outweigh the disadvantages. Mrs Brooker is an extremely influential lady, with powerful friends. Her patronage could easily establish a young man such as yourself. She is open-handed, and, as she is exceedingly wealthy, one need not feel one is taking advantage of her generosity, as it is all expressed in ways that cannot possibly encumber her. If this all sounds very mercenary, one may offer solace to one's conscience when one reflects that she is such a remarkable character. If she decides she likes you, her wit and vivacity are enthralling, her intellect impressive, her conversation edifying. As she is an invalid, she derives much benefit from a good and personable relationship with her physician."

I must confess, I was tempted. Part of me was inclined to be disgusted with the man's blatant attitude of servile materialism, yet this was tempered by his frank admission of his motives, and his undeniably personable manner. What is more, my pockets were fairly frequently to let, so much so that Holmes had taken to locking my cheque-book in his desk, and there was no doubt a wealthy elderly lady could be a rich prize for a poor doctor. Furthermore, I liked cantankerous elderly ladies, and they me, upon the whole. There was a streak of pride in me, however, that disliked patronage, and would not want to be a dyspeptic autocrat's pet whipping boy. I was not certain my temper would stand peremptory and unnecessary summons, and, were I to offend this Mrs Brooker, I could find my name blacklisted.

I looked thoughtfully at my companion. "Do you require an answer immediately, Dr Morgan?"

He beamed at me. "Of course not! I am pleased you have not rejected the proposition out of hand. Many a young hothead would. I think it would only be sensible to think some more upon the matter. May I return some time next week, perhaps to arrange a meeting between you and Mrs Brooker?"

"That would be most acceptable, thank you. I shall give the matter serious consideration. In the meantime, may I offer you a drink, or a smoke?"

"I regretfully must decline." Answered he, truthfully I gather, as his eyes rested wistfully for a moment upon the tantalus upon the sideboard. "I have an engagement in Wimbledon at five o'clock, and, as you can imagine, it takes a gentleman of my stature not a little time to make a journey."

He rose from his chair with a cacophony of coughing and wheezing, and I rose with him, to see him to the door. We parted cordially, and I returned to my chair, to ponder this unexpected opportunity.

On the whole, I felt distinctly heartened. Having suffered Holmes astringent and critical barbs frustratingly often of late, it was a novel and delightful experience to hear somebody singing my praises. Quite an honour to be so singled out. I suppose I _had _done well with young Anna Smithson. My pride swelled, and I fell my sullen mood lifting as I absently filled my pipe from the pouch upon the mantelpiece. I grinned to myself. Even the tobacco pouch was fuller than I remembered it. Things were looking up. For a few moments, as I puffed contentedly, I felt quite euphoric.

Half an hour later, as I neared the end of my pipe, my mood had returned to its previous low ebb. There was no guarantee Mrs Brooker would take to me. Or I to her. Furthermore, I was far from certain I wished to be a spoilt, rich elderly lady's lap-dog. I could already imagine Holmes' sneering comments about it. Sighing, I filled my pipe again, feeling distinctly sorry for myself, and seeking solace in the soothing tobacco.

The door opened, and Holmes banged into the room.

"Another torpid case from the Yard, Watson. Honestly, I need my bread and butter, but it really is too much. The official forces appear to regard me as their personal servant, to clear up whatever mess they are unable to get to the bottom of themselves. This latest is a classic. A simple case of ring-fencing, that a chimpanzee could decipher, yet it has already required _hours_, nay _days _of tedious surveillance, and will require _days _more."

He flung himself into the chair recently vacated by my corpulent would-be benefactor, and scowled at me through the cloud of tobacco smoke for some minutes before speaking. I made no comment, preferring to leave well alone when Holmes was in a disputatious mood.

"What's the matter with you, Watson? You look like you've just been poked in the eye by a shitty stick."

I sighed. Holmes rarely employed profanities, but, when he did, it was a sure sign that his temper was even more uncertain than usual. The last of my good humour evaporated. It was going to be a long week.

Little did I know then just how difficult it was going to be.

* * *

_Hm, seems our good humoured Dr Watson is feeling more than a little out of sorts. I got a bad feeling about this!_

_Please R&R!_


	2. Chapter 2: The Argument

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 2: The Argument**

Holmes seemed to interpret my weary sigh as an indirect reproach.

"Honestly, Watson, must you be such an old maid? I do not appreciate my room-mate censoring my conduct."

"Perhaps you should try to moderate your conduct a little then!" I snapped in return, my temper itching to erupt.

"What, precisely, do you mean by that, _Doctor_?" Asked Holmes, his voice superficially sweet, but his steel-grey eyes glinting ominously. He managed to place an insulting little emphasis upon my title.

"I mean," I elaborated, feeling my face beginning to redden, "that you could perhaps try to stop inflicting your foul humours upon the world at large, and especially upon me. You whinge when you have no case, and you when you do, you whine that it is not fit for the Mighty Sherlock Holmes to undertake. It's enough to drive a man to distraction, you snorting and stamping around the place, criticising, swearing, making snide remarks. Grow up, Holmes!"

I was surprised at my own outburst, but not sufficiently so, at that point, to rescind it. Sherlock Holmes' haughty reply did nothing to soften my resolve.

"Good Lord, Watson, what has got into you today? I recommend returning to your normal blend of tobacco if your new mix has such an unedifying effect."

"I have not changed my tobacco," I hissed, angrily, "As you would no doubt be able to discern if you stopped searing your sense of smell away with your disgusting dottles, as if you were trying to kipper yourself. God knows how you ever manage to spy upon anybody with your clothes reeking the way they do!" The quarrel was rapidly descending to nursery level, but I felt neither the inclination to laugh, nor apologise. Holmes' eyes narrowed further.

"I may not have to resort so heavily to tobacco if my interfering physician had ceased shamelessly nagging me to give up certain other comforts!"

I was on my feet by now, my voice raised. "Ah, yes, back to the drugs. Of course, weaning you away from your pathetic self-poisoning is shameless nagging. How thoughtless of me not to allow you to go your length. Well, get on with it then, inject yourself full of the stuff. Die twitching and senile in a puddle of your own urine and vomit, like the vile little addict you are!"

I did not previously know I had it in me to spout such vemom. Holmes was justifiably furious by this point.

"And to think I wondered why it was you chose to idle around the house, rather than finding yourself some gentle employment. Now I have had a sample of your bedside manner, I see why you need to speculate upon the gee-gees instead of making an honest living. Shall I give you your chequebook back? Although, if I do, how will I meet this month's rent, when your obviously _limitless _willpower fails you again?"

I snatched a guinea from my pocket, and hurled it at Holmes' head, necessitating him hastily ducking. "Oh, I am _quite_ beforehand with the world. Take this, with my compliments, to buy yourself some drugs with!" I bellowed, then stormed from the room.

I sat in my bedroom later, trembling, and wondering what on earth had come over me. I have always had a temper, but such hurtful outbursts were completely out of character. Now that the heat in my cheeks had cooled, a deep sense of shame was creeping upon me.

Holmes had worked very hard at detaching himself from the cocaine and morphine. He had endured my assistance and companionship throughout most of the early stages of withdrawal, which must have been deeply humiliating to a man of his private temperament. He had bourn the ordeal with fortitude, and even good humour, giving me once more a sincere respect for the strength of his character. He had not, at any time, during his difficult initial convalescence, allowed me to doubt the affection, esteem and trust he held me in; only the most trusted of companions could have been acceptable to him at such a time. Now I had repaid his trust with betrayal and his esteem with contempt. What could I have been thinking? As well have flung vitriol at him. I rested my elbows upon my knees, and raked my fingers through my hair. A dreadful headache was beginning, but I preferred that to the guilt.

As my guilt grew, so did a lowering sense of depression. If I had thought myself dismal before, it was nothing compared to the creeping fingers of despair, for all the world as if I were surrounded by one of the vile London fogs, and it was seeping blackly into my very soul. Was this how Holmes felt, when he lay upon the sofa, too lethargic to even scrape his violin? However did he endure it?

Thinking of Holmes was sufficient for me to overcome the sense of apathy the depression had cast upon me. Difficult or not, Holmes had not deserved such treatment, and I was determined to apologise. I rose to my feet, and, feeling nauseous, I descended to the living room, my heart hammering in my breast, half-rehearsing, then rejecting, inadequate apologies.

Holmes was seated at his chemistry table, fiddling with a few retorts and a Bunsen burner. He did not look particularly absorbed, and, to my surprise, he had flung wide the window. He did not normally display such consideration, and I instinctively braced myself for a preternaturally revolting odour.

He looked up at me, his expression at once wary, yet rueful.

"Watson."

"Holmes, I am so deeply sorry for my utterly uncalled for words of earlier. I don't know what...."

"Watson." He interrupted, rising from his chair and crossing over to me. "I don't doubt you have rehearsed an admirable apology, but I really cannot allow you to take all of the blame. I have been treating you worse than a dog for the last fortnight, and I can only be astonished that you have not erupted before. Your outburst earlier was only so striking in its contrast to your usual kindness and patience. Please let me hear no words of apology. They are already taken as read, my dear chap."

I had hung my head throughout this speech, but I met Holmes' eyes at the end of it, and extended my hand to him. We shook hands with relief. I realised I was still shivering with reaction, and Holmes, looking at me in disguised concern, but forbearing to comment, ushered me to my chair, poured me a brandy, and passed me his Persian slipper.

"You have had little in the way of conversable companionship in the last few days, friend Watson. Let us have a comfortable smoke and catch-up. Let me fill you in upon this dreary case of Lestrade's, and you can tell me about your corpulent visitor of earlier, and what he said to you to throw you into indecision."

I smiled, impressed but not surprised at his apparent omniscience.

"That sounds a most convivial programme for the evening." We lit our pipes, and fell into the type of effortless conversation that is characteristic of intimate acquaintances. Silently blessing Holmes for his clemency, I revelled in the easy companionship. I sincerely hoped the week was to improve.

I was not to know then that, if the week had began dismally enough, it was to continue through thoroughly dispiriting, and reach quite intolerable by Wednesday. And I would not have sat so comfortably, had I known the horrors Friday had in store.

* * *

_Ouch! Where has patient, kind Watson gone? And how could things get any worse than that horrible argument? Find out in Chapter 3_

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	3. Chapter 3: Recovery

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter Three: Recovery**

My readers may, like my friend, wonder why it was that I did not employ myself rather more purposefully during the initial years of our acquaintance. The truth is that I was at first rather more unwell than I have chosen to convey in my accounts of that time. I feel the events of this particular case may seem clearer if I now recount what I have only touched upon before.

Enteric fever is a vile disease, and gunshot wounds are almost as bad. Combine such maladies with the bitter and harrowing memories of that disastrous and tragic Afghan campaign, and it may be sufficient to break some men for life. The physical wounds were perhaps less exercising than the spiritual ones. I had been a young man, and naive, when I left for a life in the Army. I had first taken in my exotic surroundings with eyes wide with wonder.

In times such as this, the bonds one forms with ones' companions can take on an unusual intensity. Myself and several companions took it upon ourselves to extract every nuance from the strange new world. We sampled all each new locale had to offer with almost feverish interest, perhaps even then aware that our lives were fragile things indeed. I can still see their faces now, fresh and sunburnt for the most part.

Then had come Maiwand, and out of my six particular cronies, only two besides myself survived. My particular friend, a handsome fellow named Davies, with mischievous eyes, who had seemed irrepressibly fearless, had been one of those I had seen hacked to pieces before my own eyes. He had died as I tried to tend to him, and his eyes were dull with the horror of what had happened to him. He cried for his Mother with his last words.

At first, I could not close my eyes without the images from those days playing before my eyes. Of corpses, horribly and obscenely mutilated; of men, nay boys, their faces twisted with pain and terror. Their sticky blood spilling over my hands as I tried to save those not already too far gone, feeling the hot pawing of the hands of those I could not save, as I eased a little water down dying, parched throats. When sleep came, those days would be visited again with all my senses. The noise was possibly the worst. The screams and cries of dying men and horses. I could not have believed before that time that such noises would ever take on secondary importance, but I am ashamed to say we were all more preoccupied by the terrifying, deafening clash and clatter of the guns. Or perhaps the smell was the worst - flesh putrefying in the sun, and that terrible, sickly odour, mixed in with the terrible, choking dust that nobody who has not been to Afghanistan can fully understand.

The horror of the battle was followed by the worst dat and night of my life, as I was flung over the back of a pack horse, injured in my shoulder and my leg, and jarred back and forth, whilst the sun baked down agonisingly, and my throat burnt with a thirst like nothing I had ever experienced before, then followed by the most aching cold that ever wracked a man's bones. At my lowest moment, I begged poor Murray to end it all for me, as I could stand no more. The spectre of the Ghazis hung above me – the revenge-fuelled disembowelments and mutilations I had seen – at first, we were all exorcised with terror, but towards the end of my ordeal, I would almost have welcomed them.

Of course, we reached the relative safety of the fort, but my torments did not end there. The extraction of bullets in a desperately under-resourced battlefield hospital is a ghastly business. Four men held me down, although I believe I was so weak two could have overpowered me sufficiently. It was quite impossible to entirely resist thrashing about, although I am proud to say I conducted myself with some stoicism, mostly simply grinding my teeth upon the leather strap they gave me as I screamed to relieve the intolerable pain. The surgeon afterwards had ruffled my hair in an almost fatherly fashion, and told me I was "a brave boy", which had prompted a wave of homesickness that it was almost more painful than the extraction of the bullet.

Not even this had broken my youthful resilience. I had rallied, as I have written before, and was capable of pottering, and even making myself a little useful. The enteric fever was the cruellest stroke of all. Not only are the loss of all bodily control and the spasms which wrack the whole frame hideous, but the feverish wandering of the mind adds a nightmarish quality to the condition. I proved very susceptible to the illness, and lay ill for months, each improvement followed by yet another relapse. In the throes of the illness, the wounds in my leg and shoulder caused contractures of the muscles to develop, the effects of which were sadly permanent.

It was with galling grief and bitterness, then, with which I accepted the news I was to invalided out. I can recall the pain of looking at myself in the glass for the first time since Maiwand. I had been largely undressed, so the spectacle was all the more striking. Prior to the battle I had been strong, hearty and well-muscled, with lithe, powerful limbs, my tanned skin glowing with health; the picture of young, virile masculinity, even though I say it myself.

The figure which faced me on that day appeared grey, despite the tanned skin. I appeared shrunken, withered from within and without, so starkly did my bones protrude from beneath my skin, and so wasted did all my fine muscles appear. My posture was marred by a listing to my injured side, and I had an all-over tremor. My hair, which had been thick and shining, had become thinned and brittle. I was also shocked to see the ugliness and extent of my scars. Perhaps my eyes were the worst. They had stared back at me with that dull listlessness I had seen in my patients before, and how I could have laughed and wept at the confident pity I had felt for them then!

The long journey back to England was not conducive to quality convalescence, and I disembarked at Portsmouth an almost broken man. My condition was especially forlorn as I had now no family remaining to me. I believe the loving care of a mother, wife or sister may have done much to improve my condition, but my cheerless existence exacerbated my heartsickness. I believe I might have followed my unfortunate brother's path had not fate introduced me to Mr Sherlock Holmes.

I fortunately had sufficient vanity and pride remaining to me to strive not to exhibit the worst of the vices I had developed to my new and formidable flatmate, and in this possibly lay my salvation. However, no amount of pride can protect a man from the demons which visit him in his sleep. Holmes respected my privacy, but still managed to convey kindness when it was most needed, and began the slow process of drawing me out of myself. I gradually regained enough strength and interest in life to accompany him on his cases, and my recovery was on its way. However, it will be appreciated that such severe damage to mind and body is not reversed overnight.

At the time the events of this narrative took place, I had been lodging with Holmes for several years. His accusation that I did not engage in any useful pursuits was unfair, as I had had my periods of usefulness. After the first year, I had taken on occasional gentle locum work as a general practitioner. I had offered my services at several charity hospitals. I had also immersed myself in study, that, if I were not to pursue my initial ambition of travelling the world and becoming a celebrated surgeon, I should at least be well informed as a physician.

My battered frame had slowly begun to repair itself. I put on weight. I enrolled at the local gymnasium and boxing club, and, to my delight, found that I made some headway in getting myself back into training, and regained much of my prior muscle bulk. I joined the local rugby team, and offered my services as coach, hence participating in their training sessions.

These were evidently great steps in the right direction, but my progress was not to be entirely straightforward. My constitution has almost, but never entirely, recovered from the rigours of my Afghan campaign, a situation which manifests itself by a susceptibility to infection not desirable in a physician. I had frequent relapses of illness; mainly trivial infectious complaints, that a grown man in full health should have easily shaken off, but which left me raggedly worn and exhausted after each episode, to the extent that for several years I was unwell too frequently to hope to hold down any full time work.

Over the last year, I had noted a marked improvement; it was as if I had turned a corner, and my body had decided to finally regain some resistance to disease. I began to cherish a secret ambition; I wished to re-enter one of the bigger hospitals as a surgeon, and from thence make a success of myself. I had been an excellent surgeon in my time, and my battlefield experience would mean I would not be expected to embark on my revitalised career on the bottom rung of the professional ladder.

I do not know why I wished to keep this ambition private; perhaps I feared the shame of failure. However, I fell to studying every article I could lay my hands on as to modern surgical techniques. I still occasionally helped out in the neighbouring practises and charity clinics, and, as I have stated, built up my own small circle of regular patients, such as little Anna Smithson's family.

As I felt my strength grow, so did my courage, and I spoke to an army connection of mine, now back in civilian practise at St Thomas's, and fast making a name for himself as a prestigious surgeon, of my ambition. He replied that he thought a position would soon be coming vacant within his own department, and that he would put in a good word for me with his colleagues, knowing of my previous prowess. It would not be a particularly grand or prestigious role, but it represented an important step in the rekindling of my surgical ambitions.

Whilst I was awaiting confirmation of the vacancy, I was subjected to another of the perverse twists of fate with which my career had been blighted. After a long period of good health, I succumbed to a virulent bout of influenza. This should not have been a problem in itself, but one day, a month before the visit of Dr Effram Morgan, I had stumbled from my bed in a state of some confusion, and, instead of heading for the bathroom as I had intended, I had plunged headlong down the stairs, knocking myself out cold upon the bannister. Holmes had not been home, and Mrs Hudson had not heard my fall, with the result that I had not only jarred my wounded shoulder, but had lain insensible upon it for some time. I was still feeling the effects when I ushered that large and wheezy gentleman into our sitting room; hence why his offer had tempted me.

However, I had by this time a letter in my possession, offering me the opportunity to attend an interview at St Thomas's. The import of this possible passport back into professional self-respect could not be overstated. I had been profoundly grateful that the letter had arrived when Holmes was out, as I felt uncharacteristically nervous, and subject to flights of fancy, such as that by communicating my opportunity, I should lose it.

Another of my superstitious behaviours, perhaps rooted in common sense, was to avoid all opportunities to expose myself to further accident or pathogens, and I had stayed in our rooms at Baker Street, gradually working myself into an intolerable state somewhere between extreme boredom and stomach-churning nervousness. It was unfortunate that this period cooincided with Holmes' period of inactivity, so that my lack of activity was all the more apparent.

Holmes had finally taken on his tedious case, which at least had the benefit of getting him out of the house and had given us a topic of conversation on the previous night. I, however, had clung to my superstitious behaviour, and had not told him of my momentous interview the next day.

On the morning of my interview, I rose early, and dressed with great care. I requested my breakfast, but could eat little of it, my digestive systems being too preoccupied with apparently performing acrobatics. I opted for a smoke instead, to steady my nerves, but discovered it had the opposite effect. As I sat in my usual chair, I could not help thinking how much time I had spent in it recently, and how unprofitable had been those hours. It was a short step from here to dwelling on my own shortcomings, and I rose to set off in a dismal frame of mind, hardly conducive to making a good impression.

I am aware that this must have contributed to the painful events of that day. I am aware, but I still cannot recall those events with anything even approaching equanimity.

* * *

_Hmmm. Do you think the interview will go well?_

_Apologies for the tardy updates. I rarely seem to have an opportunity to get near a computer these days, but all my stories will eventually be finished. I very much appreciate you reading and reviewing, and it does spur me on to fully use what time I have!_

_Thanks!_


	4. Chapter 4: A test of quality

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 4: A test of quality**

A little of my low mood lifted during the walk to St Thomas's, and I allowed myself to dwell on what being welcomed back into the fold in a large teaching hospital would mean.

I would be at the frontier of surgical developments. There would be openings into the top-end private institutions. A good surgeon is always welcome. I could bid farewell to the litany of trivial ailments which trailed in a desultory fashion into the practice that was not even mine, and concentrate instead on curing real illnesses, relieving suffering. I would still engage in charitable work, I promised myself virtuously, but could do so without worrying where next month's rent was to come from.

The headache I had woken with that morning - the type of nagging, insistent pain that is thoroughly wearing – was beginning to fade, and each footfall no longer jarred my cranium painfully.

I should have been excited, filled with keen anticipation. Instead, I could not fully shake off the permeating gloom that had plagued me all of yesterday. Perhaps I was still a little guilty from my outburst, and also feeling that brand of discomfort which comes from knowing other people are working far harder than you. Holmes was out on his dull case, and I had accepted his reassurance that he would not need my assistance with a hint too much alacrity.

I arrived at the bustling main entrance of St Thomas's, trying not to be intimidated by the grand new building, with its multiple mullioned windows, and its venerable situation facing the Houses of Parliament.

I had been instructed to meet my colleague, Fraser, and another consultant surgeon, outside the main theatre suite. Upon my arrival, I was told the gentlemen had been delayed, and had sent a message asking that I return in forty minutes. I took myself off accordingly to purchase a cup of coffee and enjoy a restorative pipe.

The wait did my jangling nerves no good at all, and I seemed to be fighting a strange haziness of my thought processes, which I put down to apprehension.

Finally, it was time to return to the operating theatres, and Fraser and a tall, stout companion emerged. I shook hands with my erstwhile colleague and comrade-in-arms, and was introduced to his companion, Professor Beaumarris.

Fraser shook my hand heartily enough, but I thought there was something strained in his manner, and, to my surprise, I noted Professor Beaumarris looking at me rather dubiously. I put these impressions from my mind, upbraiding myself for indulging the self-pitying melancholy that had taken hold of me recently, and giving in to paranoia.

We repaired to the Professor's office, and he waved for me to be seated. _Concentrate_, I scolded myself, for the fog clouding my faculties seemed worse than ever. I was also conscious of a sense of irritation at the peremptory way with which the eminent man addressed me.

"So, Dr Watson. You wish to work for me?" asked he, in a self-satisfied manner that grated upon me.

"I wish to resume my surgical career in earnest, yes, Professor Beaumarris," I answered, pleased at my small victory in circumventing his proprietary leanings.

"Have you kept yourself up to date with surgical practise?"

"I have endeavoured to. As Major Fraser might have informed you, my health has been most indifferent for the last few years, but has improved recently, sufficient that I can allow myself to contemplate full time work...."

"And you are confident in that improvement?" he interrupted. I ignored his rudeness, and continued.

"Yes, Professor, touch wood, I am. As to the matter of keeping myself up to date, in the theoretical arena, I am conversant with all recent developments in the _Annals_ and the BMJ, and I read any article that strikes me as being of interest in the other major journals. I have studied Dr Bell's _Manual of the Operations of Surgery_ in depth, for any changes since my days, as well as scanning _Weiss_' latest products.

"Practically, I have been a frequent visitor to the dissecting rooms at Barts, to perfect those newer surgical techniques that can be gained thus. In my patients' homes or the clinics, I have also performed frequent minor surgery, excision of laryngeal web, caesarean sections, reduction of strangulated hernias, and four appendicectomies."

I was proud of that last achievement, as the technique was new and revolutionary. Professor Beaumarris looked at me from under his bushy eyebrows

"Do you not feel that so novel a procedure would be better carried out in a reputable hospital?"

I smiled deprecatingly in return.

"I am afraid my patients have not been of a class to afford care in a prestigious hospital, and, perhaps rightly at times, they have the greatest dread of the charity institutions. My operating table is often the kitchen table scrubbed down well with carbolic, but my patients have made good recoveries for the most part, and contracted little by way of infection."

The Professor muttered something non-committal in reply, and I had the strong suspicion that it was the penury of my patients which led to his disinterest.

"What think you of the hysterectomy for the female afflicted with nervous disorders?" he asked, and I should have been alerted by his expression that it would behove me well to tread carefully. Instead, I replied with some heat.

"I cannot see how mutilating an otherwise healthy woman can help substantially with hysteria. Surely it must simply add to her problems."

I became aware that Fraser was desperately trying to catch my eye, and shaking his head, and I caught the haughty stiffening of Beaumarris.

"You would do well to research it a little more thoroughly before making such sweeping generalisations, young man. I have myself performed the procedure several times, and am convinced the dampening of the women's symptoms is dramatic."

Fortunately for my chances, he appeared to take my comment as ignorance rather than insolence, and to relish the opportunity of boasting of his surgical prowess. I listened composedly enough, but could neither be convinced of the efficacy of the procedure, nor of the morality of its performance.

Apparently satisfied by my attention, Beaumarris went on to ask me several further questions pertaining to surgery and practise. I am certain my answers were far from erudite, as I was conscious of a deepening of my hazy mental state, and could barely collect myself to return sensible replies. However, it cannot have been too disastrous, as he asked that I assist him in a procedure that afternoon, that he might further assess my prowess. Fraser, oddly, seemed to be regarding me with fresh disappointment, that I could only assume stemmed from my inarticulate replies.

I felt some degree of perhaps prophetic anxiety when I realised the operation I was to assist was to be conducted in the large open operating theatre, and that the walls were to be lined with medical students.

The patient was wheeled in, face down, mercifully anaesthetised before the sea of curious faces was revealed.

The operation was to be a ligation of a popliteal artery aneurism*, I realised with alarm. The procedure had a high mortality rate, and would not normally be undertaken unless the rupture was considered imminent. As I palpated behind the knee and felt the swelling, I frowned with surprise.

"Professor Beaumarris, this aneurism does not appear to in danger of rupture," I muttered, _sotto voce_. He regarded me with amusement.

"The new theory is that the recovery rate is improved by an earlier intervention," he replied. "How would you proceed, Dr Watson?"

Rather doubtfully, I supplied, "I would use the procedure of ligation of the superficial femoral."

He gave a little crow of triumph. "Then you would be a stick-in-the-mud, Sir! The latest thinking is to approach the popliteal artery directly, thus sparing more of the leg should complications occur."

Rather surprised, I blurted out, "I had rather thought that technique tried and superseded. Surely the confined space, the lack of a collateral blood supply, the proximity of other nerves and vessels..."

He laughed now, and patted me on the shoulder. "You have been reading too much, dear boy. There is no substitute for hands-on experience. This fellow will be thankful when he is able to return to gainful employment."

I buried the thought that the fellow would probably be able to remain in gainful employment for many years, with no more discomfort than I faced from my own injured leg. The condition was a rare one, and the Professor was a highly esteemed surgeon, after all, and it was true that I had not been associating with the higher echelons of my profession for years.

Professor Beaumarris seemed better disposed towards me since I had supplied him with an opportunity to display his superior knowledge. He whistled cheerily as I began to prepare the patient.

My long association with Holmes led me to notice the man's callused hands and feet, and the shearing of hair from his shins, where he was obviously used to spending much time upon his hands and knees. He was a labourer, then. The fact caused my uneasiness to increase, as I had already decided the Professor was not the charitable type.

"Have you performed this operation often before, Professor Beaumarris?" I murmured, my voice quietly neutral. He did not appear to hear me, but turned to address his flock of students.

"I imagine you will not have seen this surgery performed, as, as my _esteemed-_" he put a tiny emphasis on the "esteemed" which caused me to bristle involuntarily, "-colleague has pointed out, the established thinking has been to approach the vessel from above. You are fortunate, in that what you will witness today is at the forefront of surgical expertise."

Beaumarris gave an affected little bow to his audience, at which I suppressed a snort of disgust, and turned his attention to the patient.

His dissection was admittedly impressive, and we were soon gazing upon the artery in its white sheath, nestled into its hollow bed beneath the vein. The aneurism bulged obscenely, but, I noted with further misgivings, it was barely two inches across; surely not significant enough to warrant a risky procedure? I glanced up at Beaumarris, but he showed no sign of discontinuing. I reminded myself of his "early intervention" theory, and had to wonder just how theoretical it was.

Beaumarris had been complimentary of my part in the dissection so far, telling the students how very helpful it was to have such an obviously experienced pair of hands to help him, in a way I considered extremely patronising. Now however, I was beginning to struggle. I was experiencing a bad resurgence of my headache. Bright lights played shapes across my retinas, and I was finding it difficult to focus. Worse still, my shoulder ached unbearably, and my hands had developed an increasingly evident tremor. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to rise above the situation and concentrate upon my work.

I explored the extent of the aneurism with my fingertips, and picked up the forceps to dissect further up the leg, in order to get above the body of it. Beaumarris saw me.

"What are you doing, Watson?"

"I am accessing the vessel above the aneurism to ligate it."

"No need. Just place the ligature here."

"But it is calcified – it is almost solid, Professor."

"It does not matter. It will only take moments to do our repair."

Dubiously, I pulled the ligature as tightly as I could around the point he indicated. It was extraordinarily difficult, as the space was so tight, and the structures so densely packed, and my shoulder became to scream in protest, while perspiration trickled down my face.

Beaumarris opened the aneurism, getting me to suction the resultant blood with a three way syringe device. He commenced scraping the debris that lined the aneurismal sac, and deftly excised an elliptical segment of the vessel wall. There was no doubt he was a talented surgeon, and I was beginning to relax, when suddenly a great pulsatile torrent of blood erupted from the wound. I could not refrain from a cry of alarm, and the students, whose presence I had begun to forget, roared disgracefully in appreciation.

"Watson! Your ligature was not sound!" raged Beaumarris, but I was too busy with attempting to staunch the flow of blood to object. My fingers were slippery, and there was blood in my eyes, weighing down my eyelashes. I scrabbled in the wound, attempting to locate the end of the artery that I might clamp it, but it was out of reach of the tiny dissection field. I managed to slow the flow a little, by pinching the suggestion of an edge, but by no means stop it.

To my horror, Beaumarris stamped his foot in an appallingly inappropriate display of pettish rage, stated; "The procedure is quite ruined!" and stamped from the room.

The poor man on the table continued to bleed profusely. I looked up at the audience, and snapped, "I will require some assistance immediately! Somebody come and apply a tourniquet to this leg!"

A short youth with a round face and smug visage sauntered over to me.

"I shall help, Sir."

"Thank you. What is your name?"

"My name is Lucet." He paused, much to my frustration. "I do not believe Professor Beaumarris thinks tourniquets should be much used in modern surgical techniques."

"This is not a modern surgical technique, it's barbaric, and the patient is exsanguinating! Do as I say!" I barked, in my best army tones. Thankfully he obeyed, and the flow of blood slowed, so that I could inspect the damage. I groaned at what I found. The calcified vessel had split along the plane of Beaumarris' incision, and the tear was travelling up the vessel, past my perfectly good but now sadly useless ligature. I fingered the remains of the aneurismal sac, and found it hopelessly brittle. It would not support stitches, let alone the flow of blood. The leg below the knee could not be salvaged.

"This man's leg will have to be amputated." I stated, and my voice rang hollow in my ears. "Could somebody please find Professor Beaumarris and inform him."

"I doubt the Professor will agree to that, Sir." Lucet stated, in a tone that suggested he was about to commence a lecture. I had no energy to spare for this kind of idiocy, so I despatched him to find Beaumarris himself, and a much more satisfactory assistant, a pleasant faced youth called West, came to my aid.

I remembered performing surgery on the battle field. A good deal of my work had been amputations, or the rapid staunching of bloody wounds. I closed my eyes, only to open them with a shudder as memories of hot blood, scorching sun, yet limbs that seemed cold to the touch, rose to the fore, and I felt my gorge stir as I recalled the stench, and the sounds.

The strength required to perform a successful amputation is considerable. In the battlefield, where anaesthesia is usually an unheard-of luxury, the faster the procedure, the higher the survival rate, and the lesser the suffering of the poor soul beneath the knife. At least here, my patient was blessedly oblivious, but speed still lessened the chances of shock and heart failure.

Following circumferential division and retraction of the soft tissues, the leg must then be immobilised whilst the bone is severed with a saw. Ruefully, I flexed my shoulder experimentally. Did I still possess that necessary combination of deftness and strength, especially after my recent accident?

Unlikely, supplied the irksome voice within.

There was little choice in the matter, and, ignoring my exhaustion, I began the procedure. My tremor was becoming ever more evident, and I noticed West giving me the odd worried glance. However, we had successfully exposed the bone between us.

I hefted the bone saw, and attempted to find a firm grip upon the limb that my injured shoulder could manage to maintain. It was excruciating, and the resultant technique far from ideal, but eventually the thing was done, and I was shaping and attaching the flap to cover the stump.

As I straightened stiffly, and slowly released the breath I had not realised myself to be holding, I became aware of a presence at my elbow. I turned slowly, and there was Beaumarris, his pompous little acolyte at his elbow.

"You chose to amputate from very close to your faulty ligature. You may have found the procedure a good deal less fiddly had you gone higher up the leg."

I stared at the man incredulously. "The lower the amputation, the easier the patient finds it to adapt to a prosthesis, which, incidentally, I hope the hospital will provide, since this ill-advised operation has led to the loss of his leg." A rage was beginning to creep up upon me; my ears were ringing, and an unpleasant bitter metallic taste was in my mouth.

Beaumarris looked supremely disinterested in the degree of future handicap his patients may expect, and I could tell he was about to employ his patronising manner again. My fury boiled a little higher, and I felt strangely as if my usual ability to reign in my temper was being overcome by some external force.

"Watson, I see you are carrying an injury to your shoulder."

"Yes," I answered through gritted teeth. "A relic of my Afghan campaign, recently exacerbated by a fall."

"Hmm. Remove your shirt a moment." I was so taken aback, that I obeyed him. I blinked, feeling the effects of the encroaching haziness again. Beaumarris began lifting and flexing my shoulder, then performing a manoeuvre that caused me to cry out in pain.

"See the wasting of the deltoid here gentlemen, and the ugly scarring and deformity of the scapula. Watson here is unable to maintain a full range of movement, presumably due to the secondary fibrosis. The strength and dexterity is bound to be reduced as well, which would explain his rather feeble execution of the amputation you just witnessed, and is also likely to account for the failure of his ligature.

"This arm is effectively crippled, and I'm afraid Watson's ability to perform surgery is negligible because of it. He was probably not aware of this fact, as he has done no work to speak of in the several years since he was wounded. This is a lesson to you all gentlemen; know your limitations."

At first, I had listened to this cruel recital in shocked disbelief, but the inevitable anger was not long in coming. Again, I felt that strange dissociation between my rage, and my ability to control it, and I heard my in advisably furious reply as if from outside myself.

"Know my limitations? What of yours, _Professor_ Beaumarris? This operation never needed performing in the first place, and this poor man has lost his leg and possibly his livelihood because of it! He is evidently a poor man, I do not see him producing a fee for you. You cared so little for him, when it was obvious to you your exciting new procedure had failed, you left him in my so-called incompetent hands – he could have died, man! So, why the surgery? Well, you tell me of the "new theories"; I have a theory, and it is that the "new theories" are _your_ theories, and you needed a victim to practise upon!"

Beaumarris had gone very white, but he kept his composure, and suddenly forced his countenance into a sympathetic expression.

"Gentleman, I shall not be prosecuting this gentleman for slander, despite an entire room full of witnesses, because I am saddened to see a veteran of the British Army brought so low. You will have observed his constricted pupils, his excessive perspiration, his tremor, his evident agitation. He is obviously under the influence of some drug which is acting adversely upon his nervous system. I understand addiction is a tragic blight following a difficult war, and that he was not always thus. His erstwhile friend, Mr Fraser, was most disappointed to witness the change in him, and I think suspected the cause at once." He turned to me now, and I wondered if anyone else could see the red glint beneath his veneer of humanity.

"Go home now, _Doctor_ Watson, and see if you cannot get yourself clean of the drug's evil influence. If you are successful, perhaps you can make a return to general practice at some point, but I am afraid I can never allow you to practise surgery in any of this country's institutions again."

I had no choice. My rage was ebbing, and a dreadful hopelessness was taking its place, as the excitement from the surgery subsided. The fog in my mind would not allow me to offer a clear and defensible riposte, and I had no doubt that the excuse to prosecute would be seized upon, should I provide further opportunity.

I turned to leave, conscious that many of the students were jeering, and that Beaumarris was not trying to stop them, despite his pretence of sympathy. I held my back as straight as I was able, and walked away; away from the hateful man, away from the cold-blooded students, away from the operating theatres and the poor unfortunate patient, and away from any hope of salvaging my career and my self respect.

* * *

* Popliteal artery: the main artery to the lower leg, running behind the knee. An aneurism (also spelt aneurysm) is a ballooning of the vessel, leading to eventual weakness, and sometimes rupture, of the vessel wall. Watson was quite correct; this is a rare condition, and would not normally present a danger until it reached a very large size.

_ Poor Watson. I think you might have suspected his interview might contain one or two hiccups._

_ I hope nobody felt too queasy about all the gory surgical details._

_Thanks for the lovely reviews – always much appreciated, and please keep them coming – even the bad ones!_

_Quite a mini debate that's going about the word "insinuating" on my review table! (If you were remotely interested in it, read on; otherwise, there's nothing much of interest until the next chapter, I'm afraid – which I hope will come along soon!) I thought I'd take a couple of minutes to settle it: here's the Oxford English Dictionary definition:_

_insinuate_

/in**sin**yooayt/

• **verb** **1** suggest or hint (something bad) in an indirect and unpleasant way. **2** (**insinuate oneself into**) manoeuvre oneself gradually into (a favourable position).

— DERIVATIVES **insinuating** adjective **insinuator** noun.

— ORIGIN originally in the sense enter (a document) on the official register: from Latin _insinuare_ 'introduce tortuously', from _sinuare_ 'to curve'.

_That's the beauty of the English language, isn't it, so many words having alternative uses?_

_By the way, I must apologise for adding a review to my own review table (very bad form, and I shall remove it myself for the sake of honesty in due course, unless people would prefer it to stay), but seeing as one anonymous reviewer has been courteous enough to take the time to review, yet seems more interested in the critical process than the story, I thought it only polite to reply._

_Cheers everyone! _


	5. Chapter 5: A Stygian stream

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 5: A Stygian stream **

I barely recall the walk home following this nefarious incident.

I do remember stumbling into the path of a hansom, as the driver had reason to curse me, and I remember the utter lack of interest I felt in the narrowness of my escape.

I must somehow have allowed my steps to carry me back to Baker Street. I was an automaton, performing the journey without conscious thought. I must have washed my face and discarded my blood-stained best suit out of habit, but I have no memory of doing so.

My next clear recollection is of sitting in my usual chair by the fire, wrapped in a dressing gown and an impenetrable layer of misery. I felt no hunger, no further rage, was barely conscious of the aches I had acquired from the strenuous surgery. I was empty, hollow, but there was no room inside me for anything but unmitigated desolation. The only comfort I was allowing myself, and that unconsciously, was smoking. I smoked incessantly, barely waiting for one bowl to burn down before refilling it, and filling the room with the kind of dense fug I usually associated with Holmes' all night sittings.

Holmes had not returned, and did not return all day. Mrs Hudson entered the room with dinner that evening, and exclaimed in disgust at the miasma, which had begun to encroach upon the rest of the house.

"We will be having the fire brigade called soon, Dr Watson! Really, it is bad enough Mr Holmes smoking like a chimney and filling the house with Heaven knows what other poisonous fumes without you joining him."

I barely had the energy to respond, lost in deadly, numbing apathy. Mrs Hudson could hardly have failed to notice my unhappiness, and her motherly instincts were immediately awakened.

"Why, Doctor, you look dreadful. Is something wrong?"

"I am fine, Mrs Hudson." As this response was delivered in such completely flat tones as to refute it utterly, Mrs Hudson was not satisfied.

"Have you eaten today, dear?"

"I've not been hungry," I muttered. The good lady was evidently torn between concern and irritation. After a moment's hesitation, she leaned over and took the pipe from my unresisting hand. She would not normally take such a liberty, and mild surprise penetrated my introversion.

Laying the pipe upon the mantelpiece, Mrs Hudson began to shoo me from my chair, like a large and irresistible hen. I was too boneless to resist, and allowed myself to be shepherded to the table. Tutting, she threw open the window, and the cold blast of air cleared my senses a little. Unfortunately, this just served to bring my mind back to my body's ills, and some of my earlier anger and indignation stirred again.

My landlady tutted again upon seeing the state I had made around my chair, detritus from my perpetual pipe scattered over the arms and the floor. She grabbed the hearth brush, and began cleaning with the kind of soft, huffing noises designed to convey to a man that he is in disgrace. I found it irritating, and my beleaguered mind seized upon the minor distraction, to protect itself from contemplating far bigger concerns.

Mrs Hudson was now pointedly banging the dustpan against the hearth, and I decided attack was the best form of defence.

"Mrs Hudson, must you make that intolerable racket? I have the headache."

"I am not surprised," she answered, tartly. "I am surprised you can breath at all in here." She coughed, to illustrate her point, then came to hover over me as I toyed with my food. "You should look after yourself better. You do not need to be Mr Sherlock Holmes to know you have been sitting there stewing all day, and you did not call for lunch."

"I have not been sitting here all day, I have been out," I snapped, pushing away the memories of all I had done. Mrs Hudson looked at me, doubtfully, and my ire was raised. Petulantly, I decided to undermine her by attacking her weakest spot.

"Mrs Hudson, have you not learned Holmes' patterns?" I grumbled, as I poked the lamb chop disconsolately with my fork. "When he is engaged upon a case, he does not habitually eat. Lamb is his partiality, not mine. Why could I not have had something that _I_ enjoy, but do not usually get to taste because of his fussing? Why not pork?"

Mrs Hudson stared at my ingratitude, but it seemed my terrible mood was infectious.

"I _am_ sorry, to be sure, Doctor, but I cannot be expected to run my kitchen by observing Mr Holmes' whims. If you wish for a different dinner, you may request one in advance, to give me time to prepare it," she snapped, in obvious annoyance. She then looked around her at the dirty cloud of my own making still lingering about the ceiling. "Perhaps if you stepped out and got yourself a little fresh air and exercise, you would have more of a healthy appetite."

I started to angrily protest, something dreadfully juvenile, along the lines of _not_ being a juvenile, but the effect was ruined by Mrs Hudson turning her back upon me to march to the far window and throw it open also.

"Eat your lamb chops or don't eat your lamb chops, but do leave this room for a while."

"Mrs Hudson, it may have escaped your attention that it is dark, and the weather is foul. The smog is smothering any trace of fresh air out there."

"_Not _so much so as in here. Moping around in all this cannot be good for you, and it is certainly not good for my walls and ceiling. _Well_?" She asked, fixing me with a quelling eye. I sulkily began to eat my chops.

After a few mouthfuls, and probably something to do with the chill draft now rattling the crockery, a little more of my apathy left me, and I decided I would leave the house after all.

Wrapped up well against the dank conditions, I dawdled down Baker Street, not certain of where to go. I then began to get cold, so I picked up my step.

Mrs Hudson had been right; the walk did clear my head. However, I found this was not an improvement, as there was much I would rather forget. The horror of what had happened in that operating theatre was taking a distinct shape, rather than the formless impression I had carried with me all day, and prompting a fresh wave of negative emotions.

I almost preferred the cloying, nebulous depression of earlier to this state of heightened awareness. The humiliation burned, but it was nothing to my sense of guilt, which magnified my own responsibility for the appalling consequences. I should have done more to halt the operation, I should have spoken to the patient, I should have saved the leg, I should not have lost my temper and therefore won the students over to my side in support of my patient. The guilt was like a maggot, gnawing its way through my soul. Professor Beaumarris' role was suppressed, my role exaggerated, in the tortures my own mind inflicted upon me. I did not stop to consider how helpless I should have been to halt proceedings, how the patient would almost certainly have bled to death had I not been assisting, how there was no way on earth I would have been allowed access to the patient following my outburst.

My guilt reached such proportions that it seemed to dominate my every perception. The night streets around me seemed to pulsate and distort in front of my eyes, and everything I looked at was tinged with ugliness. I believed it was the rot in my own soul, causing everything to be reflected back to me as I deserved to see it.

The emptiness of earlier was now superseded by a yet more awful state, where I felt my mind to be crowded beyond my capacity to bear. Every action of recent days tried to play back in my head simultaneously, with a skewed, self-condemning connotation. I recalled my rudeness to my landlady with a shudder, and felt the expected acute embarrassment, but also a sense that this was yet more proof of my own irredeemably despicable nature. A wretchedness so intense was building within me that I had to halt my steps several times, and press my balled fists to my heart.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, a tiny voice insisted that this was a morbid over-reaction, but this small trickle of reason was drowned out by a dark, swirling torrent of despair. Where the two streams of consciousness collided, they left an echo. Why had I lost my way so completely? Was I going mad? When would these torments end?

Valid questions indeed. Things were just beginning.

* * *

_ What can have got into the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street? Even Mrs Hudson is out of sorts, and I don't like Watson's state of mind at all._

_ Ongoing thanks for all your reviews. Enjoying all the hatred for the horrible Beaumarris – who sadly probably wasn't all that unusual in his day, informed consent not being a priority back then. So, you all think something awful should happen to him, eh?...._

_ Please continue to read and review, as you all make me one happy bunny!_


	6. Chapter 6: The Descent

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 6: The Descent**

I arrived back following my walk to find the house still in darkness. I presumed Holmes must still be out upon his "tedious surveillance", and tortured myself a little more with guilt that I was not assisting him. Our sitting room looked particularly cheerless, and the smoke had left an acrid, stuffy smell behind it.

I just about summoned the energy to walk up the stairs to my bedroom and change into my night-clothes. The room seemed freezing, and I climbed, shivering, between the sheets, pulling the thick quilt around me.

It seems unsurprising that I passed a terrible night. Sleep would not come, except in short fitful bursts, punctuated by twisted nightmares. In one, Beaumarris was whittling the flesh from the legs of a screaming victim, whilst I held the man down, knowing there was something terribly wrong, but that I could neither speak nor stop it happening. Faces surrounded us, shaking their heads in condemnation. The victim turned, and he had the face of my brother, then Holmes' face, then my Mother's, and then it was I wielding the knife. I awoke trembling and soaked to the skin.

I could not seem to get warm, and the bed was intolerably lumpy. My shoulder throbbed with pain, and felt heavy and useless. The headache was increasing, and my stomach churned with nausea. I coughed, fitfully.

Worse than anything else was my state of mind. My depression and guilt had reached such levels that I felt I should never be happy again. I longed for sleep, for oblivion, but it would not come.

As sleep was denying me, I found myself craving tobacco smoke, my only other comfort. Having tossed and turned for hours, too tired to arise, yet too tired to sleep, I gave it up, and decided I would head down to the living room.

I arose and dressed automatically. I did not concern myself with washing or shaving, but settled myself in my chair, a blanket draped about me, and commenced re-creating my tobacco-cloud of last evening.

Dawn was breaking when I heard the front door open. There was a pause, then quiet steps ascended the stairs, and Sherlock Holmes walked back into the room, holding a thick slice of bread and lump of cheese he had evidently salvaged from the kitchen. He halted at the door and sniffed.

"Trouble sleeping, Watson old man?"

"Yes." I answered, even the monosyllable costing me a great deal of effort. I was curled in the chair, my back to Holmes, and could not bring myself to face him. He evidently respected my privacy, and did not immediately pry any further, but began a gentle stream of chatter as he pottered around the room behind me, evidently ravenously eating at the same time.

"Well, Watson, I'm sorry you are denied your rest. I have spent tonight awake also. This little case of the Yard's have proved more interesting than I anticipated, and also trickier. You recall my mentioning that it seemed a simple case of ring fencing, and that we only need catch the receiver at his trade?"

He paused for dramatic effect. It was obviously an invitation for me to comment, but I could not oblige. There was a slight pause, then Holmes continued, determinedly.

"The receiver is a slimy, bulbous villain named Dix. We know that he has a string of small bric-a-brac shops, chemists and tobacconists across the city, so he has a choice of locations for storage, and his suppliers can prearrange at which of these to drop the stolen goods. He tends to specialise in small, valuable items, which could be concealed in the false bottom of a tobacco jar, or disguised amongst his legitimate items. He breaks down the jewellery himself, and sells it legally, yet at establishments which do not demand too detailed a provenance. I got wind of his business when undercover on the Stebbing case, and the Yard had their informants too – minor players, yet able to shed a bit of light on where half the stolen goods in London are ending up.

"It has been quite a pretty little problem, tracing his hand to each of his establishments. I fear he may be a more dangerous character than I had originally imagined. We have been able to loosly tie him to a great many of his associates, and three of those associates, including one who was very useful to the Yard, have ended up in our city morgues. Of course, it could be cooincidence, as they deal in a dangerous trade, and one of them was a suicide, but I dislike cooincidence, as you know. People have been understandably nervous to talk. I have had to use a good many of my connections, as he uses several aliases, but I am certain we now have all of them. He has been cunning, like a lizard with many tails – if one of his shops was discovered, he could cut it loose, and use another. However, once we have all of them, his movements will be severely compromised.

"We did not think he was aware of our surveillance. I have been minding him directly, the Irregulars watching the other shops in pairs. As soon as we could finger him for one count of receiving, we could obtain proper warrants to search the rest of his property, and it would be plain sailing from then on in.

"A problem seems to have arisen though. He has not done any trade for almost two weeks, despite there being three robberies which would normally have his stamp upon them. Also, he disappeared into one of his shops the day before yesterday, and did not emerge. He must have a concealed entrance....

"I am sorry, am I boring you?"

His tone was acidic. I turned too face him then, and, as he took in my appearance, his expression became one of sympathy.

"I take it the interview did not go well?" he asked, softly.

"How did you know?" I asked, but I felt the barest of interest.

"I deduced that your avoidance of your usual routines was likely to be an avoidance of contagion, as you politely yet hastily left the room when Rosie brought the breakfast tray up, snuffling like a hedgehog. It seemed likely the reason was a special event, about which you had elected to remain silent, as you have borne occasional signs of anxiety, or fallen into brown studies whereupon you glance at your medical bag, your journals and the calendar. You have also changed your reading pattern, becoming far more systematic, over the last month.

"You were wearing your smart shoes yesterday, yet they have been carelessly discarded at the bottom of the stairs in an uncharacteristic display of untidiness, and they are splattered with blood. You also have a little blood in your hair, and you are unshaven; again atypical for one of your usually fastidious nature. Finally, there is a crumpled letter in the hearth, having missed the grate, that shows signs of having been carried around folded for a considerable time. A letter to attend an interview?"

I nodded, mutely.

"What happened, Watson?" He asked, kindly.

"I do not wish to discuss it," I croaked.

Holmes paused, then flung himself down into the armchair opposite me, viewing me with some consternation.

"I know I am not one to talk, Watson, but are you trying to smoke yourself to death? Even I find the air in here absolutely dreadful, and you sound quite hoarse, as well as looking as cheerful as a condemned man. It is not like you to turn a setback into a disaster, old boy."

I merely shrugged, and avoided Holmes' eyes.

"Are you in pain? You are holding your arm awkwardly."

I shrugged again. "It is of no account."

"And is your bedraggled air of general profound despondency also of no account?"

"Please, Holmes. I do not wish a string of deductions."

Holmes scowled, sympathy warring with exasperation. He then seemed to reach a decision, and picked up his cherry-wood pipe and his Persian slipper.

"Very well. I shall direct no further impertinent questions and deductions at you. God knows, I have been in the doldrums often enough myself that I have no right to castigate you for your silence. Let us contribute further to this pall together – a shared pipe may ease many a trouble."

I vouchsafed no answer, merely continuing to wallow in my private gloom. I sensed irritation from Holmes again, and felt the re-ignition of guilt. It had a new edge now – I felt myself to be a useless encumbrance, who served only to depress and hold back my brilliant room-mate. I began to dwell upon the frequent "doldrums" Holmes mentioned experiencing, and, in my disturbed frame of mind, began to attribute the blame of them to myself. What kind of a physician was I, if I could not even control my closest friend's dark humours?

The nonsensical nature of these musings barely troubled my conscious mind. That Holmes had been susceptible to his bouts of depression before I had ever laid eyes upon him, that I had done much to mitigate them over the years, that he always had been a law unto himself: such considerations faded into insignificance in the face of my self-loathing. I even upbraided myself for referring to him as "my friend" - how complacent and conceited of me. What would a man like Holmes see in a crippled failure like myself? I was more pitiable millstone than friend.

Holmes' strident tones suddenly cut into my morbid reverie.

"Watson. Whilst I am sympathetic to your obvious misery, I do not believe I can endure either your sniffing, or your sighing much longer. It has been at least four times a minute for the last hour and ten minutes now. Come along, man, pull yourself together! You have barely moved since I entered the room."

"I am sorry, Holmes." I muttered, listlessly, attempting to straighten myself in my chair, and extricate my handkerchief from my pocket. My hands were shaking worse than ever, and as I fumbled, I dropped my wallet and tobacco pouch upon the floor. Coins and tobacco scattered everywhere, and, as I bent to retrieve what I could, I heard Holmes mutter "clumsy fool" under his breath. I bowed my head as I reached under the sofa. One of Dr Effram Morgan's calling cards was hidden behind the chair-leg, and I tossed it into the fireplace. Currently, I did not even feel equal to the task of mollycoddling spoilt elderly ladies.

I took up a medical journal to appease Holmes' irritation, but it must have been perfectly plain I was not turning the pages, and my conversation remained as unedifying. Eventually, my morose attitude drove Holmes from the room.

I barely moved. Mrs Hudson came and went, three times, each time attempting to get me to eat, and each time seeming more concerned and aggravated than the last. At lunchtime, I allowed myself to be bullied to the table, but ate little. Holmes, emerging from his bedroom, was no more enthusiastic with his repast, apparently caught up in thought. Soon after, he gave a soft exclamation, and left the house again, not asking me to accompany him.

I sent dinner away, with the monosyllabic communication that I was not hungry.

I again dozed sporadically and restlessly, but again, my sleep was rendered hideous by my dreams, which had become less well formed but no less filled with slithery, greasy fragments of tortured subconscious thought. Eventually, I could bear it no longer, and I embarked upon a further descent. With my brother's sad example, I should have known better, but I was beyond reason.

With a tiny resurgence of energy, I snatched up the brandy decanter, and poured myself a large measure, then another, and another.

When the decanter was empty, I turned to the whiskey, and drained that too. I was now so entirely drunk, I could not walk straight. However, I managed the stairs to my bedroom, holding onto the walls as I went. I reached my bed, and fell, fully clothed upon it. I then passed into blessed and deep unconsciousness.

* * *

_Oh, Watson. You're going to have one hell of a hangover. Let's hope that's not the least of your worries. What is the matter with you? I almost don't recognise you...._

_ More in Chapter 7._

_ Please read and review!_


	7. Chapter 7: Invasion of the spirits

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 7: Invasion of the spirits**

I awoke at some point during Thursday feeling as ill as I have ever felt in my life. Anyone who has ever consumed the best part of a quart of strong liquor at a sitting will therefore understand how hideous my misery had been on the preceding day when I say I felt better in myself. The misery now was little more than that of a man who has knowingly poisoned himself, and is reaping the rewards whilst leaning over the bathroom furniture which has already seen far too frequent usage.

It must have been mid-morning, or perhaps afternoon, when a gentle knock sounded at the bathroom door, and Holmes entered in response to my weak acknowledgement.

"I feared as much," he said, his mouth twitching at the sight of me. "I saw the empty bottles. You look _gorgeous_."

I could only groan eloquently.

"I have brought you some water. I have stirred in a little salt and sugar, to make a nine percent solution of each. As I am sure you would tell me in a similar situation, you will need to replace lost fluids."

"I shall just bring it back up again." I whispered, unable to speak any louder.

"Then you shall drink more, bring it up again, drink more again, and bring it up again _ad infinitum_. Your body will know how to take care of its needs, so long as you provide it with the substrate to do so."

I sat up a little, responding to Holmes' masterful nature as usual. He helped steady my hand and guide the liquid to my mouth. It was blessedly cold, but I spluttered as I detected the salty taste hitting the back of my throat.

"Ugh, nasty!" I was incapable of embarrassment at such a childish utterance, and compounded my words by trying to push the glass away. Holmes was relentless, and virtually forced me to take another sip.

"Come along, Watson, swallow it down."

I gagged as I obeyed.

"Oh, Holmes, I think I'm going to...."

My friend hastily moved aside, tactfully averting his eyes from my predicament. However, as soon as my breathing had returned to normal, I felt a cool cloth wipe my forehead, and then he was compelling me to drink again. This time, he was more successful, and by dint of a gradual process with several setbacks, I managed to take over a pint.

My condition had now improved, from almost moribund to merely decimated. Holmes, tired of crouching upon the bathroom floor, suggested we repair to the living room, and offered me assistance whilst my unsteady legs attempted the journey. He then helped to establish me on the sofa, propped up with the afghan tucked around me, and a basin, just in case, clutched to my chest.

"By Jove," he teased, as he collapsed into his own chair. "Now I begin to see why you became a little tetchy on the few occasions when I have rendered myself in a similar situation."

"I am terribly sorry, Holmes." I moaned. "I am sure I'll be absolutely mortified when I have the energy to spare. Thank you for your assistance."

"Today, I shall overlook it. I shall even refrain from smoking or chemistry or violin practice until you feel rather more the thing – but it would not do to make a habit of it. Do you think you could tolerate a little tea and dry toast?"

"I shall try." I replied, eager to please. I was slowly coming back to myself. I did manage to take a small amount of sustenance, watched approvingly by Holmes.

"How is your case?" I asked, as I cautiously finished the slice in my hand. My head ached abominably, and, to be entirely honest, I had little enthusiasm for the answer, but I felt honour-bound to listen after his exertions on my behalf.

"Progressing well, Watson. I shall further inform you in more detail when you are capable of listening with the smallest degree of interest. For now, suffice it to say, I have discovered how he has been eluding me. I am not the only person capable of utilising outside help, it would appear. It has been necessary for me to play least in sight, and lull him into a false sense of security; this appears to have achieved the desired end. One of our targets has dropped off his prize to one of Dix's shops. Dix was _in absentia_, but I fully anticipate he will return to inspect the merchandise tomorrow, and arrange for payment. We then have a warrant for his arrest."

"Does this mean another all-night surveillance for you?"

"No, no. Quite the opposite. He will prefer to visit his establishment during its opening hours. He has an appointment with his legitimate supplier until ten o'clock, which will give us time to occupy the surrounds in an unobtrusive fashion. I do not anticipate there being any action before eleven in the morning, but I have placed a watch, of course. Sometimes, one must delegate."

"I am sure the tale is fascinating in its entirety, and that you will forgive me enough to relate in to me when I am recovered from this ghastly self-inflicted condition."

Holmes smiled. "You are easy to forgive, my friend. However, I am curious as to why you suddenly developed the need to pickle yourself. It is not like you. I will go so far as to say you have not been yourself for some days now."

"I am aware of it." I muttered. "Would you be awfully offended if I postpone explaining myself until I feel rather more articulate and strong-stomached?"

"Not at all," he replied, suavely. "Take the time to recover yourself a little. I shall occupy myself with my current books. Perhaps this room will seem a trifle less oppressive when I have cleared some of the paper avalanche I have created. You should try to sleep. I find ethanol's slumbers to be unsatisfying, notwithstanding their depth."

I nodded, then regretted the movement. I closed my eyes, relieved at least that the world had ceased spinning. I slipped into an exhausted doze.

I awoke some hours later. For a moment, I sincerely hoped I would find myself feeling much improved. It was with a sinking sensation that I began to identify all was not well. I was shivering violently, and soaked with perspiration. I believe the headache had awoken me, and it throbbed agonisingly. There was an edge of nausea persisting, and an awful metallic taste again. As I attempted to process these observations, I noted that my very thought processes seemed sluggish and woolly.

Worst of all, like an oily seepage of dark matter, the depression was returning. I could feel it, gnawing at the edges of my consciousness like an intruder. A strange terror seemed to possess me at this alien invasion of my mind, yet I was helpless to prevent it as, yet again, it stole in, to infiltrate everything I was; body, mind and soul.

* * *

_Which just goes to show you should not rely upon alcohol to solve your problems. Although, he did seem a little happier when he was hungover. Hair of the dog, perhaps?_

_Please continue to read and review! Continued in chapter 8._


	8. Chapter 8: My wrath did end?

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 8: My wrath did end?**

The occasional rustling sound and the scent of Holmes' tobacco told me my friend was still in residence. I sat up upon the sofa, massaging my stiff neck, and attempting to suppress my sense of panic at my encroaching misery.

Holmes looked up.

"Awake, are you? You look a little healthier, yet still distinctly peaky."

"I am not quite myself." I reached for my tobacco pouch, which was by now almost empty, attempting to conceal the trembling in my limbs. Holmes was no longer looking at me; after the first appraising glance he had returned to his commonplace books.

I managed to light my pipe without mishap, and puffed away, staring into the fire. I drew in the smoke appreciatively, realising this was just what I needed. The shaking in my extremities calmed, my nausea was dispelled, and the sense of panic regressed. I inhaled more deeply. Nothing seemed to matter now...

It had me before I had time to acknowledge it. The despair. Although my fear of it had subsided, it had returned, and it was worse than ever. Yet again, my mind and soul were in torment. The crackling blaze in the hearth was no longer a cosy fire to warm oneself beside, but a reminder of the inferno my spirit deserved for its sins. The wisps of smoke collecting again about the ceiling seemed malignant sprites, summoned into being for the express purpose of introducing bitterness and pestilence into the world – and a reflection of my inner self.

I turned my back upon Holmes, so that he would not see my face, would not ask. I could not drag him down with me. I sat like that for an indeterminate time, enough to finish the tobacco in my own pouch and reach for Holmes', frozen outwardly, the only signs of life the puffs of smoke from my pipe, whilst internally my world continued tearing itself apart.

"Watson?" Holmes' voice cut into my self-destructive thoughts. "You look petrified. What on earth is the matter? "

I shook my head. "I will be well, Holmes. Please allow me the time to overcome my weakness." Speaking was an intense effort. My voice sounded surprisingly calm, but it did not satisfy Holmes.

"For God's sake, man! Do you take me for an imbecile? You cannot go on in this way."

"Leave me be, Holmes!" I snapped, keeping my back turned away.

"I have left you be for _over five hours_! It is morning." _Was it really so long? _"You must stop this self-indulgence."

At that moment, Mrs Hudson entered, bearing a loaded tray.

"You asked for an early breakfast this morning, Mr Holmes. Are you both going out?"

I could sense Holmes' irritation as he was baulked of his prey. A direct assault was out of the question with a witness. However, Holmes is ever versatile, and he changed his tactics to a flanked attack.

"No, Mrs Hudson. Watson prefers to lounge around here, singlehandedly doubling London's pollution."

I almost winced, but my apathy was too powerful. Distantly, I thought I could hear Mrs Hudson scolding Holmes. So long as I was not forced to move, I did not care. Then her steps were approaching me, and her hand was on my shoulder. She gently compelled me to look at her.

"Doctor, you look like you've seen the seventh circle. Will you not take a little breakfast at least? You've not eaten enough to keep a cat alive for these three days."

"Will you cease your nagging, Mrs Hudson. Food is not a panacea." Exhausted by this impolite eloquence, I slumped again. However, I seemed to have roused our formidable landlady's temper.

"Well, I never! Let me inform you, Doctor, that I prefer not to be addressed in such a fashion in my own rooms. If it be nagging to attempt to stop my gentlemen starving themselves, then so be it. Look at yourself! Can you not at least freshen yourself up a little?"

"Go away, Mrs Hudson."

"I _beg_ your pardon, young man?"

"For Heaven's sake, Watson!" Holmes was staring at me as I finally turned to face my tormentors. "Whatever is going on, there is no need to address Mrs Hudson in such a fashion."

I muttered an apology, and bowed my head again.

"Words mean nothing without actions. Stir yourself, Sir."

"No." It came out as a whisper. I knew I was being infuriating, but somehow, it met my expectations of myself.

Now Mrs Hudson was red with anger.

"Then at least put that pipe out. This is bad enough without setting the house alight. I will not have it, I tell you. Your nasty drunken behaviour, sitting there all bewhiskered in all your dirt, your insulting attitude, and this dreadful idleness, then you have to go and fumigate the house with your horrid stinking pipe. This is a respectable gentleman's residence, and I expect my tenants to behave like gentlemen, not like dirty stopouts who don't know how to behave any better!"

I had not realised Mrs Hudson was aware of my earlier infirmity. I turned to Holmes.

"Thank you for telling our landlady of my weaknesses. I am glad to hear I am a subject of backstairs gossip."

"_Backstairs?_" Gasped the enraged women, inflating to twice her normal size. "How dare you! I am no servant." She turned to Holmes, who was staring, open-mouthed at me. "Sort him out, Mr Holmes. Or you can both look for alternative accommodation!"

She stormed from the room, and I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the cloying mist which seemed to be enveloping my senses.

"For your information, Watson, I told Mrs Hudson nothing of your disgusting performance, but she is observant enough to take note of the levels in the tantalus, and she could hardly miss your heaving like a pig yesterday. You appear to be exhibiting one of the less appealing characteristics of the drunkard – the blaming of other people for your own shortcomings." Holmes voice was icy, and seemed to be penetrating my shield of misery.

Perhaps if I had been able to summon the will to apologise properly, to arise from my chair, to clean myself, or even just to show signs of life, I could have averted setting the flame to the touchstone.

Instead, I shrugged.

The effect was dramatic. Holmes seemed to erupt; the cool reasoner and man of tight control swept aside in a display of passion I had not seen before. Unfortunately, I was the recipient.

"_YOU!! _How _DARE_ you sit there and shrug at me, after this disgraceful exhibition!" He was livid. His eyes flashed at me, and I half noticed his pupils were savagely dilated, his face was flaming, his lips were drawn back, his teeth bared and his nostrils impossibly flared. Veins stood out in his neck and temples, and his long, elegant hands were clenched into fists.

"_You sit there, moping for your lost career, which was never so spectacular in the first place from what I can glean! You grunt, you sniff, you groan, yet you achieve nothing, you utter waste of space, except making my life a misery, upsetting our landlady, and threatening to make me homeless! And this after I mopped up your filthy mess, you disgusting, dribbling, crippled, useless, pathetic, sottish FAILURE!"_

The screamed words had definitely penetrated now. I felt as if a hand had reached into me and was pulling out my insides. I was rigid with shock; ironically, now that I wished to speak, the words would not come.

Holmes spun on his heel, and turned his back on me, elbow leaning on the mantelpiece, fist clenched to his mouth, breathing hard through his nose. I attempted to speak, but was forestalled by another, heavier tread upon our seventeen steps.

Lestrade entered the room. He did not appear to have heard Holmes' outburst, but the smile fell from his lips as he took in Holmes' forbidding countenance. I shrunk into my chair, hoping for invisibility.

"Mr Holmes?" Holmes must have pulled himself together, as he replied with some composure.

"Yes, Lestrade? Have you news?"

"Certainly have." The little inspectors voice vibrated with suppressed excitement. "He's biting, Mr Holmes. Cancelled his appointment with Bainbridge for something 'urgent' what's come up. He's on his way to the Finchley Road now – I have a warrant, we can catch him red-handed – but I thought you should be in on it."

"Excellent!" cried Holmes. "Then we must make haste!"

Lestrade seemed to hesitate. "Are you joining us, Dr Watson?"

"No. He is not. Come, Lestrade!" Answered Holmes, and he swept from the room without a backwards glance.

I listened to the sound of their feet descending the stairs. I looked absently at my hands, and saw they were shaking. My skin felt clammy, and my clothes seemed to rasp unpleasantly. Holmes' words rang in my ears. "_Useless... filthy ..... pathetic .... disgusting.... "_

I felt I deserved each and every appellation. Somehow, the fact that Holmes had spoken them gave them a certain veracity and gravitas.

Strange. Whereas before, my soul had been heaving yet my body had felt so heavy I could barely move, now I appeared suddenly possessed of a restless energy, and I could not keep still; but a strange, hollow calm had settled within me, as if every extraneous sensation except quiet despair had been expelled. Holmes words hammered into me, and I acknowledged their truth, yet it was with a resigned acceptance of my very existence being nothing more than parasitic.

_"Utter waste of space ... sottish ..."_

I could sit still no longer. I leapt to my feet, and the movement, after such prolonged immobility, caused my injured leg to buckle. I clutched at the edge of the sofa, my head swimming, and wrenched my injured arm.

_"... crippled ... useless ... you achieve nothing ..."_

The sickening pain suddenly seemed to clear my head, and with a flash of inspiration, I realised how I could achieve something at least. It was a sad reflection that the sum of my life could not amount to more than this feeble contribution, yet it had to be done.

With a heavy heart, yet restless legs, I limped towards my medical bag, then stopped. _No. That is for healing. It is not right to put it to such a purpose._

Instead, I crossed to the writing desk, but the object I sought was not there. Holmes must have it. _At least he is taking care of his own safety_, supplied my mind, the automatism requiring no conscious thought.

I paused, my head in my hands, considering my options for a moment. I then remembered the contents of a box in the attic, from my more athletic days, when I had considered myself something of a pioneer in the sport of mountain climbing. I had scaled Lliwedd and Ben Nevis; days long behind me, of course, but had not been able to bring myself to part with the relics from those adventures.

It was not difficult to find the box amongst my scant possessions, and retrieve what I required.

I returned to the living room. There was a strange ringing in my ears, and I shuffled along numbly. I shook my head to clear it.

I emptied the contents of my medical bag onto the chemical table, and replaced them with that from the box in the attic.

I would need to inform Holmes of my intentions, of course, and apologise for this last inconvenience. I could depend upon Holmes to proceed sensibly. I did not wish anybody else any worry or upset. I sadly withdrew pen, ink and paper from the writing desk, and attempted to steady my hands sufficiently to write. The ink spluttered. _Clumsy fool_!

I placed my finished missive in an envelope, and addressed it to _My Good Friend, Sherlock Holmes_, in a moment of wistful sentimentality. It was true inasmuch as he had been a good friend to me.

Before I left, I shaved, quickly washed myself, and changed my clothes. As I looked in the mirror, I had the strangest feeling I was standing behind me, watching myself.

As I descended the stairs and crossed to the front door, Mrs Hudson appeared in the hall. I addressed her, softly.

"Mrs Hudson. Please allow me to wholeheartedly apologise for my behaviour of earlier. It was inexcusable. I must thank you for all the care and attention you have shown Holmes and myself over the years."

"Oh, Dr Watson, please, think nothing of it. I wished to apologise for my own crossness. I don't know what came over me, and I can see you have been troubled recently..."

She sounded tearful, but I cut her off before she could apologise too much, as I cringed that she should find it necessary.

"Please, do not feel you need to say anything to me. I have been a wretched tenant and you have shown nothing but patience." I tried to smile at her now, but my facial muscles did not seem to obey my brain, and I'm sure the result was twisted. "Please, do not prepare lunch for me. As you can see, I am just going out, at last. I may be some time."

~*~

_** The narrative is continued from this point by Mr Sherlock Holmes**_

~*~

I noticed Lestrade casting curious glances at me as we rattled along in the cab. I was not surprised, as I could sense the angry flush still burning across my face, my teeth were ground tightly together and my fists clenched.

My entire body pulsed with rage. A small, rational part of my brain seemed to be observing my reactions dispassionately. I was unaccustomed to losing control, and was strangely fascinated by myself.

The Scotland Yard man had initially attempted conversation; to speculate on the likely outcome of our excursion. After he received nothing but tense monosyllables in response, he had relapsed into silence, which had continued for some time.

As we neared our destination, the cab struck a rut, jarring us uncomfortably. I snarled as it exacerbated the tremendous headache that had been nagging at me since yesterday, and snapped;

"Damn this blundering idiot of a cabby! Is he attempting to pulverise us both before we reach our destination?" I struck the roof with my cane, and bellowed, "Be careful, Man!"

Lestrade's eyes opened wider yet. He was regarding me with considerable unease. I was about to strongly retaliate when I stopped. A most peculiar sensation was stealing over me. I felt as if the rage was lifting, almost artificially, as if curtain were being raised from my senses. Guilt began to trickle in instead, and again, there was that odd suggestion that it was an outside agent, not intrinsic.

The stunning realisation hit me, suddenly and forcefully. I was a blind fool!

I have not for years dabbled in the illicit substances that Watson so disparages without developing an awareness of their effect upon me. The artificiality of the sensations were real enough. I truly _was _responding, and now withdrawing from, an external agent.

With this insight, I gasped, and turned to my companion. As I addressed him, other, earlier, observations slotted into place, lending considerable urgency to my tone, as my mind reeled in sudden horror.

"Lestrade, you may rib me for my blindness as much as you wish after this, but I need us to turn around and head back to Baker Street immediately. It is my strong belief that myself and Watson have been poisoned, and that he has received the higher dose."

* * *

_ Hurry, Holmes! _

_ Oh dear. _

_ *This isn't an AU fic, is it? Surely there'd be a warning on it if it was?*_

_ Read on to chapter 9!_

_ Oh, and thank you for all the wonderful reviews. I really appreciate them. There's been some excellent guessing going on too!_


	9. Chapter 9: A matter of some urgency

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 9: A matter of some urgency**

The drive back to Baker Street seemed interminable. Lestrade, to his credit, once he had grasped the urgency of the situation, ordered the cabby to "spring 'em", and did not allude to the probability of losing his collar.

The cab had barely stopped before I was springing from it, and racing up the stairs to our rooms.

Empty. My mind almost instantly took in the contents of the medical bag upon the desk, the bag itself missing, the open drawer in the writing cabinet. Unease was already churning my stomach when my eye fell upon the envelope propped against the mantel. I snatched it up, and tore it open with trembling fingers.

The handwriting was uncharacteristically unsteady, I noted automatically, as I began to read.

As I assimilated the contents, I had the sudden feeling I was falling through space.

"Mr Holmes?" Lestrade's voice sounded far away. "Are you alright? You are white as a ghost. No trouble threatening the Doctor, I hope?"

"The worst!" I gasped, yelling "MRS HUDSON!" as I turned to race back down the stairs. Mrs Hudson appeared rapidly, her face apprehensive.

"Did you see Watson leave the house?" I fired at her, simultaneously ordering Lestrade to call back the cab.

"Yes, Mr Holmes. He must have left fifteen or twenty minutes ago. He had washed and shaved and changed his clothes, but he didn't look well, and said he might be... "

I was no longer listening. "Pray God we may still be in time then, Lestrade! Hurry!"

We leapt into the cab.

"To the docks, Man! Do you know the old Bastion warehouse? Then make haste, make haste! Ten guineas for you if you get us there in time!" The horse was already sweating, but I ordered the cabby to drive as if his very life depended on it. We caused considerable alarm to pedestrians as we thundered through the street.

"Mr Holmes. Will you please let me know what is happening?"

"I cannot," I whispered, through still-grated teeth. "Do not ask me to speak of it yet, but please trust me."

London's docks loomed oppressively against the skyline; the haphazard jumble of giant warehouses, heavy machinery, boats and the stench of the river lending its own type of hellishness to the scene. I could see the building I sought. Watson and I had cause to know it well; we had hidden there, to ambush one of the more insalubrious of our empire's smugglers five months hence. Its boarded up windows and general air of decay announced it to be a building at the end of its life, and I knew it to deserted save for the rats.

The door to this crumbling edifice was kept locked, but the wood was weak and rotten, and it had very recently been prised open, the splintered wood dry and not yet mired with the sooty air that settled over this district like a shroud. Our footsteps were muffled by dust as we stepped into the dimly lit interior, the only illumination filtering through the gaps in the window-boards.

Watson's print was noticeable in the dust immediately, the slurring of his limp very plainly marked. With trepidation, I called his name, but without reply. I hastened to follow his tracks.

The sound I heard next will stay with me for the rest of my life. A horrible, booming tattoo, like a maddened funeral march, and a loathsome gurgling; forever associated with the appalling sight that met our eyes as we reached our destination.

* * *

_Call me pessimistic, but this sounds a little worrying...._

_Next chapter up soon – tomorrow, I hope._

_Please continue to read and review – and well done to those of you who seem to have guessed what's going on – although of course I can't reply to you yet, incase I give the game away!_


	10. Chapter 10: Suspended, in time

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 10: Suspended, in time**

I felt sick to my stomach, and for the briefest of instances, I thought my knees might give out. However, I was still quicker to respond than Lestrade, frozen in horror behind me.

This room was where goods were processed, and moved in and out of the warehouse. A ceiling conveyor boasted mounted hooks, upon which items could be slung for ease of transportation.

Suspended from one of these hooks by an old knotted climbing rope, backlit by a shaft of light from the holed ceiling as if from a sinister spotlight, his heels drumming rhythmically upon a broken packing crate, was my dear friend.

The rope was tight about his neck, his hand tucked under it, his face a terrible dusky colour, but the choking noises told me he was alive at least, and in less than half a second, I had leapt to him, and was lifting his body to support his weight.

_"Lestrade! _Help me! Cut him down!"

The inspector was already obeying me before I had finished speaking, leaping onto the packing crate, blaspheming heartily as it splintered beneath him, hacking with his pocket knife at the rope with one hand, and taking his own weight with the other. The rope was thick, and of good quality, but the knife was sharp, and finally, the last strand parted, and I was lowering Watson to the ground as Lestrade hopped nimbly down to join me.

Watson looked ghastly. His face was darkly congested, there was a livid red mark about his neck when I released the noose and his breathing was coming in harsh painful gasps. But he was alive. I loosened his collar, and patted his cheek, calling his name, whilst Lestrade fanned his face with his hat. His colour began to return to normal, and his breathing to quiet slightly.

Suddenly, there was the sound of footsteps, and we looked up to see a rubicund and portly police constable entering the room.

"What's this then?" he asked, sharply, as he took in the scene.

"My friend has met with an accident, Constable." I snapped. "We came here in a two-wheeler, and I imagine we have exhausted the horse. If you could procure us another conveyance, I would be most grateful."

"I don't think that will be possible, Sir." Answered the officer ponderously, withdrawing his note-book. "This gentleman is obviously an attempted suicide, so it will be only my duty to take him into custody."

I had reason to be grateful to Lestrade for the forth time that day as he rose to his feet, and pulled himself up to his full, not very considerable, height.

"Constable Adams, is it not?"

"Inspector Lestrade, Sir!" gasped the Constable in surprise. "Forgive me, I did not see you there. I came to investigate the cab – I saw it going hell for leather – if you'll pardon me, Sir – through the street."

"You did very right, Adams. However, this gentleman here is Mr Sherlock Holmes, who you'll've heart of, and the other gentleman is his friend, Dr Watson, who has been attacked. You'll fetch another cab, as Mr Holmes here requested, if you please."

"Yes, Sir. Rightaway. Shall I fetch a doctor too?"

"No, I think we shall convey him back to Baker Street; we can fetch medical attention there if necessary." I replied, thinking to limit the number of people to witness my friend's predicament.

Constable Adams saluted, and rushed off to obey his orders. Lestrade was avoiding meeting my eyes.

"Thank-you, Lestrade. Thank you very much, on my behalf, and on Watson's."

Lestrade sighed. "Just reassure me on one point? You said he has been poisoned. I assume then, he is not responsible for his actions, and I have not just compounded a felony?"

"You presume rightly. I suspect he has been exposed to an agent which grossly compromises his faculties." I smoothed the damp hair from his forehead, and he stirred slightly, a small crease appearing between his brows. "The remarkable thing is, so indomitable is his will, he could not bring himself to go through with his plan to end his life."

"What?" asked Lestrade, understandably puzzled.

"He was loosening the noose. His fingers were underneath it before he dropped – look at the damage to the skin. He could not have got them so far underneath had he tried after he was already hanging. Look at the packing case as well. He has stood upon it for some time – considering his next move – see the shuffled footprints in the dust. He has then decided to remove the noose, but the wood must have given way – see where the top is splintered, and the marks upon his trousers.

"Bloody hell," muttered Lestrade fervently. "I'm glad we weren't five minutes slower. He's looking a much healthier colour now. He'll do. But how in blazes could you both have been poisoned – and how did you realise?"

I smiled crookedly. "Partly through knowledge of myself." Watson's eyes fluttered open, and attempted blurrily to focus. I expect the tears that spilled down his cheeks were a natural response to the physiological insult he had received. "I am not given to appalling cruelty when I am in my right mind, but, under the influence of a malevolent agent, I fear I may have precipitated this crisis."

My eyes burned with emotion, and I dashed at them with my sleeve. I then suddenly regretted revealing so much of myself. I do not think I can have been quite so free of the noxious substance as I thought. I mentally gave myself a shake.

"As for how we were poisoned – forgive me, Lestrade, but I must confess to being distracted. I should prefer that Watson is safely ensconced and awake in Baker Street before I embark on the explanations in full. I am fully awake to the debt I owe you for today, and if you will be so good as to call at our rooms this evening, I shall at least explain the circumstances to you.

"In the meantime, I sincerely hope your lieutenants may have succeeded in apprehending our fat friend Dix. I now have an added, powerful, incentive to wish to see him confined."

* * *

_Phew! A close one! But what can the explanation be? I'm sure Holmes won't mind if you join him for his explanations to Lestrade _ _At least Watson appears to be safe now – let's hope the worst of his traumas are over. Find out in the next chapter...._

_Thanks for continuing to read and review._


	11. Chapter 11: Opus 64

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 11: Opus 64**

_**The narrative is resumed by Dr John H. Watson**_

The first thing I remember, as I swum back into consciousness, was the pain. My throat and chest were on fire, my head ached all over, my stomach muscles screamed.

The second thing I remember was a voice, a wonderfully reassuring and familiar voice, calling my name. I fixed on the voice, although I could not understand all it was saying. Somebody then began stroking my hair, and I instinctively moved into the soothing sensation.

I must have then opened my eyes, for I could make out Holmes face above mine. My mind must have still been confused and my vision unfocussed, as I thought his eyes looked overly bright, and at one point, I even thought he was crying. Ridiculous, I thought, letting my lids drift shut again.

As I lay still, I seemed to become more aware of the hard surface beneath me, of the smell of damp, dust and decay. The ills of my body were also becoming more pertinent. It was cold, and I started to shiver. I felt something heavy and soft draped over me, and my head was lifted , to be placed back onto another soft surface. Somebody took one of my freezing hands in their own, and began chafing it. I closed my fingers around the comforting warmth, and heard my name spoken again, quietly and inquiringly. However, a great wash of tiredness submerged me, and I let it.

I was aware of being moved. I think there were four people, and they managed it very smoothly. Then there was the scent of leather and horses that belongs to a Hackney carriage, and I felt myself being lifted up into this conveyance.

The ride could now no longer be described as smooth. It was terribly jarring, and the aches and pains all over my body were magnified. There were strong arms around me, keeping me on the seat.

A part of me now knew that I no longer had any reason to be unconscious, but I clung to my lack of awareness like a child hiding under the blankets, somehow knowing that there must be things I did not wish to face when I was awake.

I was able to cling to my blissful insentience for a little longer, as I was moved again. I was settled into a bed, and somebody was undressing me. I was sure they were talking as they did so, and I tried not to listen, tried to stay asleep. However, the part of me that knew I should by now be awake became more and more insistent, and it became harder and harder to ignore the voice.

I had a sensation of rising up towards it, of my mind reluctantly rejoining my body, following that voice. I had the brief impression I had been doing so for a long time.

Then, my memory returned in full, and I sat bolt upright with a harsh gasp, startling Holmes, who had just been removing my shirt cuff.

I stared around me frantically. For a moment, I did not know what this unfamiliar room was, until I recognised it as Mrs Hudson's spare guest-room. Holmes rapidly recovered from his alarm, and seized my shoulders.

"Watson! _Watson!_ Look at me."

My breathing slowed as I obeyed, but my heart was still hammering, and a dreadful sense of guilt, shame and embarrassment hit me as I processed the meaning of my situation.

"That's better, old chap. Drink this." He held a glass to my lips, and helped me drain it. I detected a slight, bitter grittiness to the liquid, but it felt good against my sore throat. "Can you hear me now? Are you capable of listening to me?"

"Yes," I whispered, unable to keep my eyes to his face. "By the fact that I am here, and that my throat is abominably painful, I realise you must know what I was about to do, although, I assure you, I had already made up my mind not to do it..."

"...when the packing case broke underneath you. Yes, I realised," interrupted Holmes.

I looked up at him again in my surprise. I opened and closed my mouth, wishing to give further explanation of my inexcusable behaviour, but Holmes began speaking first.

"Before we talk any further, Watson, my very dear friend, and before you begin torturing yourself with recriminations, let me waste no time in informing you that you have been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" I echoed, dumbly.

"Yes indeed. It was a clever scheme, but I do not think it reached its intended recipient – or at least, not with the potency its instigator intended. The horrors of the soul you have been experiencing, and which have driven you to such desperate lengths, are the result of a formidable and unnatural element, which I intend to define further this afternoon. You, in the meantime, must sleep, properly. I have given you a sleeping draft - I know you do not normally condone it, but the important thing is for you to be refreshed. Would you like me to play you to sleep?"

I stared at him, attempting to make sense of all that I was hearing. I had apparently been poisoned, and now, the man who had called me an utter waste of space and a disgusting, dribbling, crippled, useless, pathetic, sottish failure was offering lullabies with his violin. I believe he must have followed my train of thought, for he winced under my scrutiny.

"If I am to compel you not to blame yourself for you actions, then I suppose I had better not give in to my own self-loathing too much either, my Watson." Holmes was speaking softly, but with thrumming intensity. "However, believe me when I say I can fully understand your difficulties if you struggle to let go of your guilt, for I am finding it a thorny task myself."

It took my battered senses a few seconds to make sense of this remark, but it then it dawned on me.

"You have been poisoned also? So when you said..."

"When I said things that make me feel sick to think upon them, that were as manifestly untrue as they were hideously cruel, yes, I also was not acting independently. Despite this, I would still value your forgiveness, sufficiently that I would go down upon my knees to beg for it."

"That will not be necessary, my friend." I took his hand, and I managed a smile, it was small, and a little sad, but my first genuine smile for days. "I take it I may also be forgiven?"

"Heartily, as you were before you asked."

I could feel the depression attempting to gain a hold on me again. However, as frightening shadows are rendered humdrum and ordinary when the light shines full upon them, so the twisted fragments of darkness seemed to wither away harmlessly in the face of my conscious perception. I was, if not easily, able to set them firmly to one side.

My eyes were drooping again. It must be the effects of Holmes' sleeping draught. I heard the faint rustle of clothing as he rose, and disappeared for a few moments, then slipped back to my bedside. The soft strains of Mendelssohn's opus 64 wrapped themselves around me, as I fell back into a deep, deep sleep.

_Hooray, Watson is getting better! But don't we want some more answers? There just might be some in the next chapter..._

_ Please keep on reading and reviewing, you lovely people!_


	12. Chapter 12: Lucidity and elucidation

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 12: Lucidity and elucidation **

It was still light when I awoke. I remained conscious of pain and a deeply muzzy head; plus a familiar constellation of symptoms such as the metallic taste, shivers, clammy skin, headache and nausea so emphasised the fact that I had been drugged and was now withdrawing, that I marvelled my not having noticed it before. Nevertheless, I felt infinitely better than I had, so filled with hope was I that the terrible depression I had been plagued with was likely soon to be banished.

Filled with curiosity as to Holmes' discoveries, I sat up warily. On finding this manageable, I rose to my feet, noticing with gratitude that a clean shirt, trousers and dressing gown, as well as water for washing had been laid out for me. A little shakily, I cleaned and dressed myself. I avoided looking in the large round mirror over the washstand, not wishing to see livid purple marks about my neck. I blessed Holmes as I picked up a soft silk scarf from under my clothes, and draped it loosely around my neck.

Sliding my feet into my slippers, I cautiously made my way from the bedroom, my steps gradually becoming firmer. I kept a hand on the wall, then the banister, to steady myself.

I heard a door open sharply beneath me, and Holmes appeared, scurrying up the stairs to meet me, beaming.

"Watson! You are awake! Your timing is impeccable. I believe our rooms will now be sufficiently aired, and Mrs Hudson is just threatening to fling me from the kitchen, as she wishes to remove the casserole from the oven."

"What were you doing in the kitchen?" I asked, as Holmes took my arm, and led me companionably towards the living room.

"A chemical analysis. My usual workspace has been out of commission this last few hours, and Mrs Hudson was kind enough to grudgingly lend me her kitchen table, after I assured her it would help identify why we had all been acting so strangely and promised the process would not be too noxious."

"And was it?" I enquired drily.

"Ah, no more than mildly offensive," he answered with an airy wave of his hand, and I felt a pang of sympathy for Mrs Hudson.

Holmes opened the door to the sitting room, and I stopped in surprise. It was unprecedentedly tidy. The reams of paper were organised into four neat piles, each secured in place with a brick. Also, the hearthrug was gone, the carpet showed signs of extensive cleaning, and our usual sofa and arm chairs had been replaced by those from Mrs Hudson's front parlour. It was also very cold, as all the windows were thrown open, and the curtains had been taken down.

"It has been a hive of activity in here whilst you have been sleeping, and I doing my chemical analysis," said Holmes, fussing around me as he ensconced me in a chair, and wrapping an unfamiliar blanket around me that had appeared with the furniture. "I have recruited all the Irregulars with their scrubbing brushes, much to their disdain. Cost me a pretty packet, and probably half my reputation with the little wretches. It's probably only because I told them they were clearing up dangerous toxic residue, and insisted they tied scarves over their faces that they didn't desert me _en _masse, but I can't deny they have done a good job.

"I think it will be alright to close the windows by this time. There has been a good through draft," declared he as he did so. "In case you are wondering, the normal furniture is in the yard under a tarpaulin. With this breeze, it should be safe to bring back in inside a few days."

"Safe? Why?" I asked, perplexed and inarticulate.

Holmes rubbed his hands together. "Is it possible you haven't deduced it yet, old boy?"

A slight exasperation, which had nothing whatever to do with poison I was sure, rose up within me. "No doubt I am being unusually dense..."

"As you say." Interjected Holmes with a twinkle, giving my shoulder a squeeze. "It will all become clear to you in good time. But first, try and deduce it. Under what circumstances would you extensively clean and clear a house, speaking as a medical man?"

"Well, to fumigate, of course. To clean an infectious or poisonous atmosphere. Are you saying our very air has been poisoned, Holmes?"

"A difficult task, locally poisoning just the air of one room, wouldn't you say?" he grinned. He was enjoying himself. "Ah, I hear Mrs Hudson with the casserole. It should be sufficiently soft for your sore..." he broke off suddenly, as I hung my head and flushed in embarrassment.

Mrs Hudson bustled into the room.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, I'm so glad to see you're awake and back with us!" she cried, and I felt she meant more than that I was recovered from my injuries. "You stay there upon the sofa. You can have a bowl of this where you sit, although do try not to spill it."

She placed the bowl on the coffee table next to me, then, to my surprise, pulled me into a rather smothering hug and planted a kiss upon my forehead. Blushing, she then recollected herself, and handed the bowl to me.

Turning to Holmes, she demanded;

"Are you about to tell us what has been going on in my house then, Mr Holmes?"

"For shame, Mrs Hudson," replied he, his eyes glinting with mischief that belied his innocent tone of voice. "Dr Watson needs nourishment. You would not have me disturb his dinner, would you?"

He laughed at the retort, which was a blow from the tea-towel, and turned his attention to his own food. "Never fear, Mrs Hudson. Lestrade will be here in no time, and myself and Watson will be well fortified with casserole. That will be the time for the grand denouement."

Inspector Lestrade was more than punctual, arriving early for his appointment, and gratefully accepting a bowl of food from Mrs Hudson, whom Holmes cordially invited to stay in the room for our subsequent discussion. He was obviously big with news, but he managed to ask me how I was faring before sharing it.

"So, Lestrade. What word of Dix?" Holmes cut into our civilities impatiently.

"Well, I suppose I should be appreciative of Sergeant Timms. He's a bright lad," muttered the little official, rather disconsolately I thought. "We got him, Mr Holmes. Edwin Obediah Dix is in custody at the Yard."

Holmes gave a small whoop, and Lestrade tried to look pleased, but evidently something was oppressing his triumph.

"Why so glum, Lestrade? You have as nice a criminal as any other in your bag, when for all you knew, he might have escaped when you didn't show in time with your warrant."

"Not in my bag, Holmes," said Lestrade, with a rueful half-smile and a shrug. "In Gregson's."

"Gregson's? How, may I ask?" enquired Holmes, almost managing to conceal the fact he was trying not to laugh.

In the face of Holmes' politely suppressed amusement, Lestrade's own sense of humour caught up with him, and he chuckled.

"Timms sent a fleet-footed young Constable hot-footing it to the Yard with a note when I didn't meet the rendezvous. Apparently, he asked for Gregson as he knew we'd often worked together before." He shook his head at the irony of the situation. "Gregson cottoned on that something might have gone wrong straight away; took him two shakes of a lambs tail to get the paperwork sorted. Always was quick at that sort of thing. They got the fat blighter on his way out, red-handed, so to speak."

"Oh, Lestrade! I am sorry." Holmes was laughing, but he sounded as if he meant it, and the Inspector appeared to appreciate that.

"Ah, well, can't win 'em all. At least we got him, and I will get a portion of the credit at least. Gregson's not such a swine as all that." He gritted this last out dubiously.

"Gregson will be sure to do so," uttered Holmes, with complete, and somewhat menacing, confidence. Lestrade looked grateful. "What are you charging him with, Lestrade?"

"Multiple counts of receiving and handling stolen goods, plus conspiracy. Should go down for a good hard stretch."

"You might like to add the murders of his associates, Albert Foster and Euan Hawkes, plus the attempted murder of Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"What? But Albert Foster was a suicide...Oh." Lestrade trailed off, caught between embarrassment and enlightenment, as he glanced at me.

"And Euan Foster died of a mysterious illness. And Dix is a chemist. And tobacconist."

I gasped as the implication of the statement struck me, and heard Mrs Hudson do the same.

"My tobacco! You said on Monday that I had changed my tobacco! I didn't believe you at the time – that was foolish of me."

"And foolish of me not to grasp the implications when you so boisterously denied what was the obvious truth."

I cast my mind back over the nightmarish week, and realisations began slotting into place.

"Every time I went any length of time without tobacco, I began craving it, and developed a headache, nausea, cold sweats, a metallic taste... yet every time I smoked, I felt... well... as if my world was ending."

Holmes gave me a sympathetic look. "I believe it began as excessive anger and irritability?" I nodded, mutely, shuddering as I remembered calling Holmes _a vile little addict_. "It then progressed to a sense of deep despondency and despair?" he asked gently, and I nodded again.

"Like nothing I've ever felt before. I have been down in the dumps in the past, of course. When I first came back from Afghanistan, I don't believe I had a cheerful thought from one week to the next. But nothing like this. Noting so... inescapable... so all pervasive." Again, I wondered if this was how Holmes felt whenever he lapsed into one of his dark moods, but it would have been too personal a question, even if Lestrade and Mrs Hudson had not been sitting there. I determined to be more patient with my friend in the future whenever his mood was particularly bleak.

"I felt something too!" broke in Mrs Hudson. "Whenever I came up here, and spent any time in that great cloud of smoke from your pipes. Heaven knows, the pair of you have made enough of a mess in the past, and sent your food away enough times that it should have stopped bothering me. But I just couldn't contain myself. I felt as if some horrid hobgoblin was on my back, whispering for me to say dreadful things, and I couldn't stop myself doing it."

"I should think it must very much dull the faculties, as well as inflame them," interjected Holmes. "It did not dawn on me for some time what was happening to us all. I just put it down to my original damnable temper. It wasn't until I was able to identify the withdrawal process that I realised I had been drugged at all. Once I arrived at that conclusion, the rest became obvious. You see, Doctor, you may have disparaged certain of my habits, but it has had its uses in the end." He winked at me confidentially, and I automatically glanced towards Lestrade. The policeman did not look confused, but rather seemed studiously to be avoiding Holmes' gaze. I presume he must have drawn his own conclusions as to my friend's habits.

Holmes began to animadvert the details of the case, crossing them off upon his fingers, as he was wont to do.

"Observation number one; Dr Watson had changed his strong tobacco for another strong tobacco, very similar to my own brand, but was apparently unaware of having done so.

"Observation number two; Dr Watson, usually as placid and unruffled as a Scottish loch, appears to have entirely changed his personality, not to mention that he is looking most unwell. He has gone through a progression, from irritable up to almost catatonically depressed. This has occurred contemporaneously with his dramatically increased consumption of tobacco.

"Observation number three; Dr Watson was in a somewhat improved mood, despite one of the most paralysing hangovers I have ever seen, after his uncharacteristic drinking binge, which had rendered him unconscious and incapable of consuming tobacco for a number of hours.

"Observation number four; Dr Watson has finished his own tobacco, and begun to consume mine. There is not an appreciable lightening of his mood, but he has begun to show signs of anger again, which may represent a reversal of the previous progression.

"Observation number five; Mrs Hudson, our usually much abused, long-suffering, and much appreciated landlady has also begun behaving with less than her usual forbearance." Mrs Hudson pressed her hands to her cheeks at this, then blushed as Holmes directed his warmest smile at her.

"Observation number six; Mr Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and occasional blind beetle, has also been having a great deal more difficulty than usual maintaining his usual impassivity; a change which is contemporaneous with sitting in the dense cloud accruing from his friend's increased tobacco consumption.

"Observation number seven; the fore mentioned Mr Sherlock Holmes detects a sensation of drug withdrawal whilst _en route_ to apprehend a talented chemist and tobacconist. Remarkable, would you not say?"

"I had dropped the remainder of that bag upon the floor!" I recollected suddenly. "Thank God that I did, or the consequences could have been far worse, if what you're suggesting about the tobacco is true."

"Oh, there's no doubt it's true," stated Holmes, withdrawing a twist of paper from his pocket, and unwrapping it to reveal a few shreds of tobacco within. "This is for your own people, Lestrade. I picked it off the floor in here earlier. I have already analysed it myself. An interesting little concoction, and I don't doubt I've only discovered the half of it yet.

"Lead particles – in sufficient doses, enough to cause psychological disturbance and notorious for provoking depression.

"Cocaine – provoking anxiety and withdrawal, not to mention psychosis. Interesting that it seems so powerful when inhaled.

"_Datura stramonium,_– I have encountered this nasty little weed before; it is quite common alongside ditches, hence its common name, stink weed. It is an efficacious hallucinogen – you would be interested to hear the original accounts of its effect on soldiers in Virginia. We may all count ourselves fortunate, as the poor fellows were reported to have squatted naked in corners behaving as monkeys and attempted to wallow in their own excrement before they were confined for their own safety – my apologies, Mrs Hudson.

"If I am not mistaken, there were spores of _Amanita muscaria_ identifiable under the microscope. I suspect there are several more agents that I have been unable to identify yet. The combination of these two hallucinogens alone must have been highly potent, especially when combined with the depressive agents."

"It was." Holmes smiled sympathetically at my muttered response, but there was a muscle twitching in the corner of his jaw.

"I still don't entirely understand," said Lestrade, frowning. "How did the poison get into the tobacco in the first place? And why was the doctor targeted?"

"In answer to your second question, I doubt that he was targeted," replied Holmes. He stretched a long arm out to the fireplace and picked up the Persian slipper. "If you were seeking to poison somebody's tobacco, is this the receptacle you would think it was stored in? Many of my vices are proving virtues today.

"As to how it got here – Mrs Hudson. Could you please describe the visitor Watson had on Monday?"

She looked surprised, and I froze in my seat as I recalled my visit from Dr Effram Morgan. "Yes, Mr Holmes. He was well-dressed, and tallish - around Dr Watson's own height. He had a round face, and his nose, a bit of a beak anyway, likened him to a drinker, if you'll forgive me saying. Bushy grey side whiskers, and he was very stout about the torso, although he was balanced atop a pair of the skinniest spindleshanks you've ever seen."

"Watson? Anything to add?"

"He had remarkably white teeth for a man of his age. Eyes were blue and bloodshot. Small hands and feet, neatly trimmed fingernails. Very charming in his manner."

Holmes turned to Lestrade, whose mouth had pursed into a silent whistle. "You see, Lestrade? Strip away the removable features such as facial hair, and what do you have?"

"He sounds very like our man Dix, Mr Holmes," answered Lestrade, grimly.

"Indeed. And he dropped his calling cards upon the floor when he was here."

"However do you know that?" I exclaimed.

"You picked one up from behind the leg of the sofa. You did not appear surprised to see it, nor to study it when you threw it into the grate. Therefore, it was not an unexpected finding. Mrs Hudson cleans under the sofa as often as I will allow her, usually weekly, or fortnightly if I am being particularly obstreperous, so it cannot have been there for long.

"I would anticipate that you picked his calling cards up, Watson?"

"Yes, I did, Holmes," I said, the truth finally dawning on me. "He told me he had lumbago, and couldn't reach the floor. I was crawling around down there for some little time. Easily long enough for him to look around, find where we kept our tobacco, and fill it with his poisoned blend."

"Precisely!" beamed my friend, and I dipped my head in embarrassment at being so easily duped.

"Why did he ask for me, Holmes?"

"Ah, what more respectable guise is there than a doctor? And what more innocent excuse for visiting a man than a medical one? He also might have suspected that I would recognise him, but had no reason to think you would. I believe he has had the house watched, and waited until I was out before calling upon you. He was certainly quick off the mark; I had not been watching him for long when he fixed his attention on to me."

"He sounds as if he runs a formidable organisation," I mused.

"Ye-es," drawled Holmes. His eyes had suddenly taken on that dreamy, faraway look that denoted furious internal activity. "A _very_ formidable organisation indeed. Hm. I wonder..."

He broke off, giving the impression of suddenly arriving back in the room. "You do have him guarded closely, don't you Lestrade?"

"What? Yes, of course."

"Good. I shall look forward to speaking with him. He certainly has a great many questions to answer."

At this moment, there came a knock at the door, and the scullery maid brought in a telegram, blushing under her mistress's stern eye and dropping a curtsey as she delivered it to Inspector Lestrade, before scuttling from the room.

Lestrade scanned the telegram, then paled and looked up, consternation writ large upon his face.

"You'll get no chance to speak to Dix, Mr Holmes. He has been found dead in his cell half an hour ago."

_ Well, the plot thickens, just as you thought it was thinning. Well done to those of you who guessed poison, especially poisoned tobacco! (Lee, Be3, KylaRyan, Hagstrom, Reflekshun) Well done to Faersul, who didn't like Dr Morgan from the beginning, and to FoggyKnight who noticed the business cards.._

_ For double-detectiveness, Shedoc got that the fat doctor did it to the tobacco, and Pompey that the tobacco was poisoned and that Holmes' quarry was a tobacconist... gosh, you're all a good load of detectives! And, as you can see, I really DO read and appreciate your reviews._

_ But _now_ what's happening? Well, all will be explained in Chapter 13. Perhaps._

_ Please read and review, to keep my fingers tappa-tapping!_


	13. Chapter 13: Through gritted teeth

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 13: Through gritted teeth**

It was a grim party who climbed down from the cab to alight at Scotland Yard. We made our way to the holding cells, Holmes' lips drawn into a tight, forbidding line, yet subtlety supporting my still rather unsteady progress. I had insisted on accompanying him upon this mission, keen to see for myself if Dix was indeed the jovial physician wishing to acquire my services.

Lestrade was almost vibrating with fury at being baulked of his prey (although, I thought with rather black humour, his temper may be mollified when he recalled the unfortunate event had occurred on Gregson's watch). The sergeant in charge of the holding cells visibly quailed at his approach. The little detective may occasionally be treated as a bobbing-block by Holmes, but there was no doubt he was regarded with deep awe by his fellow Yarders.

"Inspector Lestrade, Sir! I wired you as soon as Constable Jacks discovered the body. I swear nobody apart from his solicitor has been into the room. Dix must have had the pill hidden about his person, but the Lord knows how – we searched him from top to toe when he came in here. I suppose it's only a tiny thing."

"Pill?" interrupted Holmes, his stern voice recollecting the Sergeant's scattered wits. "Start the story at the beginning, man!"

"Yessir," rapped out the unfortunate fellow, drawing himself up to his full height. "You can see for yourself, Sirs."

At this, the Sergeant unlocked and swung upon the door to the holding cell. It was a plain little room, not particularly squalid - this was where prisoners were held prior to their conviction whilst the law still perceived them as innocent - but austere enough. Light filtered through two small skylights in the high ceiling, and the walls were dry yet roughly whitewashed. The floor was covered in cheap linoleum, easily cleaned, yet providing no sharp edges such as tiles may have done. A covered bucket and washstand stood behind a light-weight screen. A chair, a writing desk with two Bibles upon it, and a thin-mattressed low bed, both with the standard prison-issue dovetailed joints, were the only furniture.

These details meant nothing to me at the time, as my attention was riveted by a stout middle aged man, sprawled upon the bed, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. The rusty hue to the livedo that had suffused his face immediately diagnosed his condition.

"Cyanide poisoning," I whispered, my throat grating as my rate of breathing involuntarily increased. "The blood has rushed to his face, causing flushing, then the discolouration of ferrous haemoglobin release. The method will have been a gelatine capsule containing prussic acid – it is still clenched between his teeth. A much favoured method of suicide – so rapid as to be almost painless." I stepped a little closer, and examined the face in more detail.

"I met this man in life as Dr Effram Morgan." Nobody was surprised to receive confirmation of this. I felt a pang of strange yet understandable emotion, no doubt the first genuine pang of disappointment and self pity I had felt in some days. So even the uninviting option this man had seemed to offer me was false, and my career lay in greater tatters than ever.

Holmes was examining the room, his grey eyes glittering with steely intensity. He paused and picked up one of the Bibles.

"This is not standard prison issue, Sergeant Walker."

"No, Mr Holmes," answered Walker. "It is the prisoner's own. It is something they are allowed to request. His solicitor brought it; he had a note in the prisoner's own handwriting asking for him to bring it from his home. We searched it when it arrived; opened it up and flicked through it, felt along the spine for razor blades and the like – it wouldn't be the first time a chap'd tried smuggling stuff in from the middle of the Good Book."

"Did Mr Dix give this request to you, Sergeant?"

"No, Mr Holmes. I assumed he must've wrote it when he was arrested, before getting here."

Holmes turned to Lestrade. "We should verify whether he did so nor not." Lestrade was already nodding.

Holmes slid his finger into the opening between the spine and the binding. "It would be difficult to conceal a hard item in here, but something soft, like a gelatine capsule..." he drifted over to the corpse, and looked closely at the capsule clenched between those curiously white teeth, "...particularly so curiously shaped a capsule as this."

Lestrade sighed. "Dix was a chemist, of course. Must have prepared for this day in advance. He could easily shape the capsule as he wanted it."

"A rather pessimistic view for him to take, Lestrade. We have no definite evidence to tie him to the murders as far as he knows. Also, a rather cumbersome method to choose. Surely he would have been better off keeping his engine of destruction about his person? A Medici ring, or a pendant – far more reliable."

So saying, Sherlock Holmes withdrew his penknife from his pocket, and, with the larger blade, gently prised the teeth apart sufficiently that he could withdraw the remains of the capsule, which he laid upon his handkerchief upon the table. It certainly was an odd shape; flat and square. Delicately picking it up with his small forceps, he inspected it under his glass.

"Curious. There are only bite marks upon the upper side. The lower incisors have left no mark. And the tip of the capsule is slightly crushed upon the upper side, as if it had been clamped to a hard surface."

Holmes then returned to the body, and inspected the underside of its chin. He gave a little growl of satisfaction.

"Here, Lestrade, Watson, Sergeant, come and look at this." Upon the chin was a small area of bruising.

"It is not very extensive, as it was made so close to the time of death," declared he.

"What do you think it means, Mr Holmes?" asked Lestrade.

"It means murder, not suicide."

"How on earth do you reach that conclusion? How do you compel a man to bite into a cyanide pill when all he has to do is let out a bellow to summon a bevy of police officers?" demanded Lestrade.

"Perhaps you will allow me to demonstrate," began Holmes, withdrawing a pencil from his pocket. Suddenly he froze, staring up at the skylight. "What in Heaven's name..."

We all followed his gaze, then abruptly, Lestrade made a gagging choking sound, followed by a roar of indignation. Holmes had flown at him, and from what I had been able to detect, struck him upon the chin.

My friend smiled at Lestrade's wrath, and held up his pencil, which now had a neat set of bite marks around an inch from its blunt end.

"My apologies for the over-dramatic demonstration. It is instinctive to open the mouth when looking up. A relatively simple matter to insert something like a spatula with the capsule clipped to it in the mouth, and a firm blow under the chin will cause the teeth to clamp down. I suggest you look into the identity of Mr Dix's solicitor."

We were not destined to learn the identity of this gentleman. He had disappeared without trace. The premises and name alluded to upon his card were genuine, but the person so named was a small, timid white haired gentleman, who had been at his offices throughout the time the murder had occurred, as could be verified by several impeccable witnesses. His description in no way matched that of the man who had come to call upon Dix; a tall, strapping gentleman with impressive brown side-whiskers, a wide, fleshy nose and skin tones suggestive of time spent in the tropics.

Holmes sighed ruefully, with a small smile, as this news was brought to him the next morning, as we sat over our boiled eggs at the breakfast table.

"I suspected as much, Watson. Dix was a medium player. He was expendable. His demise will cut off one of the limbs of the beast that is London's criminal underworld. No doubt it is a significant wound, but the beast will recover well enough, grow another limb in time to replace the loss. Taking out the head, now that is a far greater challenge."

"You suspect a criminal conspiracy, Holmes?"

"Oh yes, Watson. I am getting closer. The very fact that Dix had to be silenced meant that he was close enough to the brain of the organisation to be a risk if he betrayed any secrets. Hithertofore, I do not believe I have come closer than the low menials, who are no more aware of the identity of their great sponsor than you are. We make progress, my dear chap."

He stretched himself luxuriantly. "It has been a trying few days, Watson. Perhaps you would join me for a little relaxation at the Lysseum? I believe for the matinee performance Aleksei Tarentii is taking on Tchaikovsky's Op. 35 – are you up to coming to hear how he fares? My treat?"

I smiled, to conceal the slight edge of bitterness I felt as I replied.

"Thank you, certainly. I have nothing else to do."

"Good." Holmes leapt to his feet, shedding his dressing gown. "I shall, however, leave you to make your own way home after the performance. I have some loose ends from this last few days to tie up. I rather think they will interest you."

...+++...

_A much neglected story this, but I'm getting there! Reviews still much appreciated from anybody who can remember far enough back to recall what's going on._


	14. Chapter 14: The head with many beasts

**Doldrums and Deep Waters**

**Chapter 14: The head with many beasts**

Mrs Hudson had evidently been at pains to restore the comfort of our sitting room following its fumigation, and a merry fire crackled in the hearth. Gratefully, I moved closer to it, warming my hands, and concentrating upon the pleasant sensations and homely surroundings.

It was confusing, following my encounter with the noxious tobacco, to entirely separate my true woes from my imaginary ones, but it occurred to me, despite my concerted efforts to remain cheerful, that my situation did still merit a degree of genuine gloom. Detached from the macabre distortions of the drug, my experiences at the hospital began to return to me, and the real adversities of the situation manifested themselves. Of course, with my right mind returned to me, I would never consider so foolish and degraded a step as taking my own life, but there was no denying that, if my career had not been in ruins before, it certainly was now.

I had no doubt that Professor Beaumarris was a man of his word, of influence and of truly vindictive nature. I had no doubt that my name would be blackened and my way back to surgical practice barred. I expected that his influence might even extend to blocking my successful return to general practice – what respectable clientele could I expect if my colleagues refused to deal with me? Once the rumour got about that no surgeon worth his iodine salt would accept a referral from Dr John Watson, those who could afford to would go elsewhere. That left me with the charity institutions and those sufficiently indigent that they were in no position to demur – or, most likely, to pay my fees.

I wondered how many other rumours were now circulating about me? It was not even as if Beaumarris had been untruthful when he accused me of being under the influence of drugs. That sort of thing got around. I hoped fervently that discretion had been maintained about... I fingered the painful bruises about my throat, and shuddered. It was not only the bar from practice that perturbed me – it was the notion that colleagues, friends even, were thinking ill of me. I sighed. Vanity was not one of my overriding flaws; no man as scarred, emaciated and burned by the sun as I had been could have maintained my equilibrium if it had been, but I was not devoid of it entirely.

I would have to find alternative means to make a living. Perhaps I could turn my hand to writing? I had often threatened Holmes I would do so, and had recorded several of his cases in a form which would take very little alteration to be successful stories.

I pondered my predicament, and my options, for some little time, then gave it up in disgust with myself. I would need an interval for the dust from this case to settle. I could then look upon the problem with a clear gaze. For now, I would choose distraction. I had an unread novel I had been looking forward to beginning, and I fetched it now, successfully immersing myself in its pages, and forgetting my troubles for a while as I was transported to wild seas and distant lands.

Holmes was gone most of the day, and I was nearing the end of my novel when he returned. I heard the front door slam, and his footsteps taking the stairs two at a time. I laid my book down interestedly. He was excited about something.

He banged through the living room door in customary whirlwind fashion, and strode over to the fire with a jaunty step. Warming his coat-tails he turned his face to me.

He was smiling, and his usually pale cheeks were slightly flushed, whilst his eyes sparkled with suppressed merriment. I could not help but laugh at the sight of him.

"Holmes, what on earth has happened? You look like a child with an enormous secret, about ready to burst with news!"

He grinned at me, bobbing on the balls of his feet, his hands crammed into his trouser-pockets.

"Your deductive skills are improving immeasurably. I have indeed been busy, and have achieved a most satisfactory result to my labours, which, by the by, are intimately connected with yourself."

"To me, Holmes?" I asked, puzzled, and a little apprehensive.

"Indeed. Forgive me Watson, you may initially consider that I have intruded upon your private business shamefully, but I hope you will pardon me when you hear the end result of my endeavours."

I was by now thoroughly alarmed, and, although I did not fully grasp what was going on, had an uneasy premonition.

"I understand you had a distressing run-in with a rather unpleasant character called Beaumarris somewhat recently?" said he, suddenly but rather gently.

I gasped in shock, the sitting room receding a little, as the realisation hit me that Sherlock Holmes, the man whose admiration I prized most in the world, knew of my complete degradation. For a moment, my head was spinning too much and my breath coming too fast for me to take in my surroundings, but then, I felt him touch my arm, as he crouched upon his haunches at my feet, eyes level with mine. Humiliated, distressed, I forced myself to meet his eyes. The sympathy and contrition in his usually expressionless face suddenly made me furious.

"How dare... what _right_ did you have..." I spluttered to a halt under the steady gaze of his grey eyes, then slumped, defeated. "I didn't want you to know", I whispered.

"Forgive me, my dear Watson", he repeated, and I was viciously pleased for a moment to see a fleeting look of distress flit across his features. "I should have considered how such a personal encounter would make you feel, rather than viewing the thing as an objective case. I really can be a very stupid fellow sometimes, you know."

The frankness and sincerity of this apology palliated much of my chagrin, and I recovered myself, grasping his hand warmly for a moment.

"Apologies for my weakness", said I, in a more normal tone of voice. "It was the most mortifying moment of my life, and I should have preferred to forget it. No doubt it is illogical to wish no further witnesses, but you know how I value your good opinion."

"You still have it, my dear fellow!" cried he, fervently. "All the more so, in fact. You really should not be mortified. The way I hear it, you agreed to assist a paradox of a man, who combines the attributes of brilliant surgeon and brutish charlatan, in an operation of most dubious provenance. You questioned the wisdom of this approach, but sensibly yielded to what should have been this man's superior knowledge. Unfortunately, the revelation that this was no such thing came at a time when it was already too late to go back, and your unfortunate patient was haemorrhaging upon the operating table. Your reprehensible so-called supervisor then left the man to die at your hands, and you acted with immense promptness, doubtless saving the life of your patient, yet putting immense strain on your already injured shoulder. You even salvaged enough of the leg that the man will manage quite well with a prosthesis.

"Following this piece of quiet heroism, Beaumarris returned, and not only suggested you should have performed a more disabling amputation, but also attempted to blame the failure of the surgery upon you. You, quite understandably, lost your temper, and upbraided the Professor for his recklessness and utter lack of concern for his patient. He retaliated to draw attention to your evidently being under the influence of some drug or other, and to your injuries, in an attempt to destroy your credibility, in a demonstration that was as cruel as it was despicable."

Holmes' eyes were not twinkling now. They were flat and cold, and his face was set in lines of furious indignation. Recovering himself, he smiled again, and asked me;

"Am I right?"

I managed to return the smile, a rather watery affair.

"You have the basic facts of your story correct, although you may have romanticised your main character slightly", I croaked in reply.

"Nonsense!" declared he, relaxed and in control once more.

"I suppose it would not be too much to ask you how you discovered this?"

"Not at all. I surmised previously, as you are aware, that you had had an interview, that it had not gone well, and that you had been coated in blood. A hospital then, and likely participating in surgery. You would not be nervous if it were a small hospital; you have performed surgery in such circumstances before. A large hospital then, of some renown.

"I had seen from the state of your shoes that you had walked quite some distance, and had taken your stick. Your limp was more pronounced also. The mud was nondescript – not University or Kings then - but plentiful. Charing Cross seemed a little far, and you might have told me if you were going to Barts, as there was a good chance I'd find out. St Thomas's was my first choice, being three point eight miles away, and I recalled you have mentioned an old army crony of yours worked there."

"Very workmanlike. And the rest?"

"The George and Dragon is the slightly less respectable of the medical student haunts. The little wretches who inhabit it are very happy to gossip in exchange for a glass or two. Not only did they tell me with relish about the scandal in the operating rooms, but they elaborated upon other favourite occasions where Professor Beaumarris' lessons have been enlivened by unexpected death or mutilation. They viewed this as excellent entertainment, and declaimed scornfully about priggish fellows such as 'West' who was apparently most indignant about the whole affair."

"The young man who assisted me in surgery", I murmured in recognition.

"An admirable young man, of your own cut, and, fortunately for him, the child of most influential parents, or Beaumarris may have had him thrown out for assisting you. I met him this afternoon, and discovered him to be wrestling with his conscience. On the one hand, he is a little too diffident to trust his own opinion, and that of an intoxicated ex-army surgeon, over one of London's most eminent specialists, but on the other, he felt that if patients' lives were being put at risk unnecessarily, he ought to speak out. Also adding to his conviction that Beaumarris was wrong was his impression of the army man, who, despite being under the influence and having difficulties with his arm, was unmistakably an excellent surgeon, and magnificent under pressure."

Here Holmes turned to smile at me, and I think I may actually have blushed.

"West was a splendid find", continued my friend. "A most diligent student. Once I explained to him my profession and the origin of your accidental substance misuse, many of his doubts vanished. He helped me, at my instigation, to compile a list of fatalities under Beaumarris' knife – he kept a logbook of all the surgeries he witnessed, for his own education.

"I then made a call upon the coroner's office, where I have had some dealings before, and they kindly allowed me to peruse their records. I was able to uncover several incidents which could be viewed as dubious with the right slant put upon it."

I realised I was staring, spellbound, at Holmes, a strange prickling running up and down my spine as his narrative progressed.

"With this most interesting information, I visited one of hospital's board of directors; a gentleman who, most heart-warmingly, believes himself to be under a debt of gratitude to me. He was effusive with delight at my visit, even more so when I told him of my purpose – he cannot stand Beaumarris; not only is the man sickeningly sycophantic towards him, but there is some dispute over a silver filigree teapot or creamer or some such thing, both men being avid and avaricious collectors of silverware. He tried to look grave and shocked, of course, but he was as transparent as that window."

"What have you done, Holmes?" I burst out, my curiousity overwhelming me. He smiled; a predatory, wolf-like baring of the teeth.

"Oh, I suggested that my board member and young West's parents meet that very afternoon to discuss matters, and we then proceeded to Beaumarris' home."

I sat up in my chair in excitement at this.

"We came ostensibly to discuss some disturbing rumours that had arisen around his practice. I gave him to believe that I _might _be looking into the rumours personally. At first, he was inclined to bluster, and condescend. However, I had been glowingly introduced to him as one of the foremost detectives in the land, and he had obviously heard something of my reputation. I mentioned my dealings with Inspector Lestrade, and then I gave him a little history lesson. I have told Scotland Yard many a time that any student of crime should be thoroughly versed in criminal literature. I spoke of instances where bodies have been exhumed and doctors convicted of murder. There are several interesting little scenarios; I really should relate them to you some time. I pointed out the fascinating fact that there are several parallels between his cases and those were the perpetrators have ended their lives dancing from a rope..."

He broke off suddenly, a sickened expression on his face as he realised he had been swept away by his own enthusiam, and as I instinctively raised my hand to my neck. He grimaced at me apologetically, then continued in more contained tones.

"He was truly frightened, doctor, especially when he saw the forces allied against him. Oh, they were polite enough, explaining that they were _sure _there were reasonable explanations, but he could see they would be glad enough to go in for the kill, and, even if nothing came of it, an investigation would leave his reputation in tatters. 'No smoke without fire' would be the general outcry. He knows that. He knows that I know that. So when we suggested to him that he set up a trust fund to help those unfortunates whose surgery has been unsuccessful, or the families of those who have died upon the operating table - not just his own patients, mind – across the whole hospital - to counter the rumours, he snatched at any opportunity to forestall further investigation. He also agreed that it was a _splendid _idea to start a voluntary regulatory body within the hospital whereby each surgeon must present their outcome figures to the board at each quarter. He will head it."

Holmes wolfish smile returned. "The other surgeons will _loath_ him for it – but they will not dare stand against him, and he will not dare defy the conditions."

I shook my head wonderingly, a dazed grin of delight beginning to spread across my face.

"Holmes, that is truly fantastic. I cannot begin to tell you how much I appreciate knowing that man's predatory exploitation of his patients has been controlled. Thank you."

"Oh, but that's not all." Holmes got to his feet and stood by the fire again, watching my face eagerly for my reactions. "I had a little chat with him after the Wests and my board member had taken their leave. I placed a further condition upon him, which I believe will really hurt him to fulfil.

"Tomorrow morning, in front of a crowded operating theatre, Beaumarris will admit to his audience of medical students and junior doctors that he was mistaken about you. He will inform them that he inadvertently left you waiting for him in his prep room, where he had been experimenting with gaseous anaesthetics, and had carelessly left a volatile preparation simmering over a Bunsen burner. I imagine people will think him a splendid good sport, as he gives an informative lecture upon the merits of learning from one's mistakes.

"He will explain that he has realised he was mistaken in attempting to fasten a ligature around a calcified vessel – and I'm sure his audience will wonder how he had failed to realise it before. He will, in short, censure himself on a great many points. I have allowed him to disguise his humiliation within the context of turning each gaffe he has made into a teaching point, as I wish him to maintain some influence with which to compel his colleagues to monitor their practice. However, he will still hate it. And I shall be in the audience to witness it. More importantly, I shall witness him praise _you_ to the hilt, to ensure he does you adequate justice."

Holmes smiled at my dumbfounded expression.

"Your cache will never have been higher. He will rescind his vows to block you from returning to surgery. Do not worry about your friend Fraser, either – to him, I have told the truth. He thoroughly approves of my course of action, and wished me to covey his deepest apologies for mistrusting you."

I could not speak. I had to blow my nose vigorously. Holmes chuckled, somewhere between nervously and triumphantly.

"There there, old fellow. It's not so shocking as all that, surely?"

"I do not know what to say", I managed to choke in reply, my voice thick with emotion. "I really cannot thank you enough. I do not deserve..."

"Enough!" snapped Holmes, sharply. "Do not begin to tell me you do not deserve me to make this effort on your behalf. It is the least I can do, particularly considering my appallingly frequent episodes of boorish behaviour."

I rose, rather shakily, to my feet, and, crossing to where my friend stood, wrung his hand. I then, rather impulsively, threw my arms around him in a tight embrace, and heard the characteristic little exhale of laughter as he patted my back in return. I released him quickly, my face flushed somewhat with embarrassment at my lapse of control. I was relieved to find him looking pleased and amused rather than disgusted.

"Thank you", I repeated, seriously. "It really means a great deal to me. Thank you very much indeed."

"I should be thanking you, you know," he said, with a laugh, shaking off the sentiment of the occasion. "You have been put through a great deal of discomfort, a large part of it because of me, and, in exchange, not only do I get two intriguing puzzles to lift me out of my doldrums, but my ludicrously loyal room-mate thanks me instead of turning upon his heel and finding alternative, safer accommodation."

"Safer? Dull!" I exclaimed, suddenly irrepressibly cheerful. "What man would choose safety over a life with Sherlock Holmes?"

He looked inordinately pleased with himself.

"Shall we head out for dinner, to celebrate the conclusion of the case? The Ivy Tree would not be overly taxing, and a man would not look out of place with a muffler about his neck rather than formal evening wear. Somehow, I do not fancy sitting in and having a quiet smoke."

"I wonder why?" I answered, following him out through the door.

As we walked slowly arm in arm down Baker Street, we chattered amicably, reminding me what a charming companion Holmes could be when he chose. We were seated at our table when he brought up the topic of my future.

"So. You will be returning to work as a surgeon, then?"

I could not be sure, but I thought I detected a slightly sad, wistful expression upon his face, though he spoke cheerfully enough. I opened my mouth to reply, then closed it again. I was thinking of Holmes, but I was also thinking of little Anna Smithson, her five year old face trusting as I gently scraped the diphtheria web from her throat, and the squeeze of her small hand as her breathing recovered enough to allow her to sleep.

"Do you know, it is tremendously reassuring to know that I _can_, but I am not so sure that I _shall_. Perhaps I should look into returning to harness more seriously, but I think there may be worse lives than that of a general practitioner."

Holmes looked surprised. I explained myself, slowly, thoughtfully, as I had not really decided upon my opinions until this very moment.

"Do you know, half of the students in that audience laughed and cheered at that poor man exsanguinating and my own humiliation?" I said, quietly. "These are the people I would be expected to work with if I returned to hospital medicine. There would also be heavier obligations; as an independent practitioner, I could to some extend dictate my own working hours. I will be in a much better position to set up practice now you have restored my good name. I should look about me for an opening."

"I may know several", said Holmes, and I laughed delightedly.

"Of course you do! Why should I have doubted it?"

"You are quite sure your decision is the right one?"

"Yes. My time is, after all of some importance to me."

"Oh?"

"You spoke of the 'spider at the centre of the web', the 'head of the beast'. No doubt you will be requiring some assistance in tracking down this hydra over time? Not to mention any of the other interesting little problems that come your way. I hope you will continue to count me as your partner?"

My friend looked exultant. "A hydra is a water beast with many heads, Watson old chap, not a head with many beasts, as would be more apt. Notwithstanding, recent events have made me realise quite what the worth of a good companion in arms is. I would be honoured if you would continue to help me sift the dark waters that seep through our city." He raised his glass to me.

"To good hunting, Dr Watson!"

I copied the gesture.

"The game's afoot, Mr Holmes!"

-_FIN-_

_Well, I hoped you liked it, and didn't get too bored of the long waits in between chapters._

_I'm sure you've all guessed the identity of the fat spidery not-hydra-beast-thing. Despite _The Final Problem_, I doubt Moriarty just emerged fully formed from out of the blue._

_I am trying my hand at a dark and nasty BBC Sherlock fic next (interesting to see if dark and nasty really does get a bigger audience... call it a vaguely sociopathic Sherlock-style experiment into human nature!) ... the modern era seems a challenge! But I'll be back to the gas lamps and pea-soupers before too long._

_Thanks so much for all your reviews – and please, I'm like Oliver Twist here..._


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